3UF, 

COLONIAL 

MOME5  ,fe 


DRAKE 


THE    HANCOCK    MANSION,    BOSTON,    MASS. 


OUR 


COLONIAL    HOMES 


BY 


SAMUEL  ADAMS    ^RAKE 


AUTHOR  OF  "OLD  LANDMARKS  OF  BOSTON"  -  BURGOYNE'S  INVASION  OF  1777"  "Tun  TAKING 
OF  LOUISBURG"   "THE  BATTLE  OF  GETTYSBURG"  ETC. 


'*  All  houses  wherein   men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses. "  — LONGFELLOW. 


BOSTON 
LEE   AND    SHEPARD    PUBLISHERS 

10      MILK      S  T  R  K  E  T 

1894 


/\ 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,  BY  SAMUEL  ADAMS  DRAKE 

All  Rights  Reserved 
OUR  COLONIAL  HOMES 


TYFE-SETTINT,      AND      Kl.F.CTROTY  I'INC;      BY 

C.  J.  PETERS  £  SON.   BOSTON,  U.S.A. 
ROCKWELL  &  Ciit'KCHiLL,  PRINTERS,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


ONE  end  which  I  proposed  to  myself  in  this  book,  besides 
presenting  house  and  home  historically,  was  to  gather  up  as  many 
distinct  types  of  the  colonial  architecture  of  New  England  as  pos 
sible,  from  the  rude  farmhouse  of  the  first  settlers  to  the  elegant 
mansion  of  a  later  generation,  as  it  seems  to  me  nothing  could  give 
half  so  clear  a  picture  of  a  century  and  a  half  of  colonial  life.  It 
was  this  idea  alone  which  could  give  cohesion  to  a  series  of  sketches 
having  little  connection  in  themselves,  except  as  recording  fragments 
of  history  that  had  become  scattered  with  the  lapse  of  time.  Most 
of  them  were  written  some  years  ago  for  Appletori s  Journal ;  but 
by  the  addition  of  several  new  subjects,  besides  re-writing  the  old 
ones,  the  collection  bears  out,  I  think,  the  idea  conveyed  by  the 
title  of  OUR  COLONIAL  HOMES. 

The  selections  are  typical  in  another  sense.  I  have  considered 
each  of  these  old  houses  as  one  of  the  bricks  belonging  to  the 
American  foundation.  All  have  their  interesting  story,  their  admi 
rable  lesson,  or  patriotic  inspiration.  They  are  a  legacy  from  the  past, 
of  which  our  generation  is  only  the  trustee.  They  are  the  parent 
hives,  from  which  the  outswarms  have  gone  forth  over  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land  we  love.  I  think  myself  that  the  New 
Englander  has  some  good  qualities,  one  among  others  being  his 
veneration  for  the  things  that  have  a  history  or  embody  a  sentiment, 
like  the  homes  of  his  fathers. 


810333 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  HANCOCK  MANSION,  BOSTON,  MASS i 

THE  HOME  OF  PAUL  REVERE,  BOSTON,  MASS 17 

THE  GOVERNOR  CRADOCK  HorsE,  MEDFORD,  MASS 26 

HOBGOBLIN  HALL,  MEDFORD,  MASS 37 

EDWARD  EVERETT'S  BIRTHPLACE,  DORCHESTER,  MASS 47 

THE  MINOT  HOMESTEAD,  DORCHESTER,  MASS 57 

-THE  QUINCY  MANSION,  QUINCY,  MASS 65 

BIRTHPLACES  OF  THE  Two  PRESIDENTS  ADAMS,  QUINCY,  MASS 76 

THE  ADAMS  MANSION,  OUINCY,  iMASS 91 

THE  OLD  SHIP,  HINGHAM,  MASS 105 

THE  OLD  WITCH  HOUSE,  SALEM,  MASS 117 

THE  COLLINS  HOUSE,  DANVERS,  MASS 128 

BIRTHPLACE  OF  GENERAL  ISRAEL  PUTNAM,  DANVERS,  MASS 143 

THE  LAST  RESIDENCE  OF  JAMES  OTIS,  ANDOVER,  MASS        150 

THE  RED  HORSE  (WAYSIDE  INN),  SUDBURY,  MASS 160 

-THE  PEPPERELLS  OF  KITTERY  POINT 169 

THE  EARLY  HOME  OF  JOHN-  HOWARD  PAYNE,  EAST  HAMPTON,  L.I 176 

THE  OLD  INDIAN  HOUSE,  DEERFIELD,  MASS 184 

THE  OLD  GOTHIC  HOUSE,  RAYNHAM,  MASS .     .  194 

THE  OLD  STONE  HOUSE,  GUILFORD,  CONN » 203 


LLUSTRATIONS 


THE  HANCOCK  HOUSE Frontispiece 

PAGE 

THE  HOME  OF  PAUL  REVERE -j^. 

THE  GOVERNOR  CRADOCK  HOUSE 35 

HOBGOBLIN  HALL .     .     .  38 

BIRTHPLACE  OF  EDWARD  EVERETT 50 

THE  Mi  NOT  HOMESTEAD 58 

THE  QUINCY  MANSION 67 

HOME  OF  JOHN  ADAMS .  81 

HOME  OF  JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS .'    .  88 

THE  ADAMS  MANSION .  92 

THE  OLD  SHIP , 106 

THE  OLD  WITCH-HOUSE .  122 

THE  COLLINS  HOUSE 131 

BIRTHPLACE  OF  GENERAL  ISRAEL  PUTNAM 146 

THE  LAST  RESIDENCE  OF  JAMES  OTIS 151 

THK  RED  HORSE  (WAYSIDE  INN) 163 

HOME  OF  SIR  JOHN  PEPPERELL 171 

EARLY  HOME  OF  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE 177 

THE  OLD  INDIAN  HOUSE 187 

RUINS  OF  THE  LEONARD  FORGE 195 

THE  OLD  STONE  HOUSE 208 


OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 


THE    HANCOCK    MANSION 

BOSTON,    MASS. 

THE  old  Hancock  mansion  is  seldom  mentioned  nowadays  unac 
companied  by  regrets  that  it  could  not  have  been  preserved  in  all  its 
elegant  simplicity.  Nothing  was  more  easy.  The  opportunity  was  in 
deed  urged  upon  the  State  as  one  not  to  be  neglected,  if  the  historic 
mansion  were  to  be  saved  at  all ;  but  the  appeal,  though  eloquently  made, 
and  strongly  supported,  was  looked  upon  with  suspicion  by  some,  with 
indifference  by  others,  as  a  waste  of  the  people's  money  by  more,  and 
finally  met  defeat  at  the  hands  of  its  enemies  in  the  legislature,  not  so 
much  on  the  score  of  economy  as  of  a  short-sighted  public  policy. 

Could  that  house  be  restored  to-day,  we  think  it  is  entirely  safe  to 
say  that  the  vote  which  doomed  it  to  irrevocable  destruction  would  be 
overwhelmingly  reversed.  The  house,  however,  has  gone  beyond  a 
possible  resurrection  ;  the  regrets  we  still  have  with  us. 

After  all,  time  does  bring  its  revenges.  The  Old  Bay  State,  rich, 
polite,  learned  ;  high  in  honor  among  the  great  sisterhood  John  Han 
cock  helped  to  found  with  a  stroke  of  that  intrepid  pen  of  his,  has  just 
caused  to  be  erected  at  Chicago,  for  the  Columbian  Exposition  of  1893, 
a  copy  of  the  Hancock  mansion,  as  near  as  may  be  to  the  original,  as 
the  expression  not  only  of  what  she  would  hold  highest  before  the 
world,  but  of  what  the  world  best  knows  and  most  prizes  in  her  great 
history.  When  the  citizen  of  Dakota  or  of  Washington  shall  innocently 


OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

ask  what  has  become  of  the  original,  that  State  pride,  of  which  we  pos 
sess  our  full  share,  must  and  will  be  heavily  discounted. 

There  is  still  another  phase  to  the  matter.  Our  architects,  those 
xnctefa!:igab.e  purveyors  to  public  caprice,  after  ransacking  the  whole 
earth,  in  search  of  novelty,  wearied  with  turning  all  the  old  orders 
upside  down  and  inside  out,  suddenly  discovered  that  the  colonial  resi 
dences  of  their  own  country  had  some  merit.  Our  renaissance  has  come 
in  with  the  discovery.  Old  colonial  is  at  present  the  only  proper  style 
for  a  country  house  ;  old  colonial  is  the  vogue  for  household  furnishings, 
and  we  know  not  what  else.  To  go  through  our  suburban  villages  or 
seaside  resorts,  one  would  really  imagine  that  old  colonial  was  something 
new,  or  at  least  a  fetich  before  which  our  national  pride  loves  to  pros 
trate  itself.  Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves.  Reverence  for  the  shadow 
is  in  this  case  a  vicarious  atonement  for  our  sins  against  the  substance. 
To  use  a  popular  phrase  —  a  vile  phrase  indeed  —  there  is  money  in  it. 

But  we  may  not  longer  indulge  in  vain  regrets.  We  can  only  lift  a 
warning  finger  to  those  esthetic  souls  whom  the  sight  of  one  of  these 
old  landmarks  so  grievously  offends,  and  who  are  ever  crying  out,  in 
season  and  out  of  season,  ecrasons  rinfame. 

Thomas  Hancock,  the  builder  of  the  mansion  in  question,  com 
menced  life  as  a  stationer's  apprentice  in  King,  now  State,  Street,  and 
ended  the  richest  man  in  Boston.  From  selling  goose-quills  and  car 
tridge-paper  in  a  stuffy  little  shop,  behind  a  counter,  he  boldly  struck 
out  into  the  broader  field  for  which  he  was  so  eminently  fitted,  and  in 
no  long  time  had  built  up  the  great  fortime  without  which  it  is  more 
than  doubtful  if  his  needy  young  kinsman  would  either  have  become 
very  rich  or  greatly  renowned.  Midas-like,  everything  he  touched 
turned  to  gold  with  such  rapidity  that  it  was  currently  reported,  and 
actually  believed  by  the  common  people,  that  he  had  bought  for  a 
song  an  enormously  valuable  diamond  which  he  afterwards  sold  for  a 
great  price.  Hutchinson,  who  did  not  like  John  Hancock  any  too  well, 
accounts  for  the  uncle's  rise  to  wealth  in  a  very  different  way.  He  says 
the  secret  lay  in  importing  from  St.  Eustatia  great  quantities  of  tea  in 


THE   HANCOCK  MANSION  3 

molasses  hogsheads,  which  sold  at  a  very  great  advance  ;  and  that  by 
importing,  at  the  same  time,  a  few  chests  from  England,  the  rest  was 
freed  from  suspicion,  and  Hancock's  reputation  as  a  fair  trader  did  not 
suffer  thereby.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Hancock  only  toiled  and  schemed  to 
pile  up  wealth  for  others  to  spend,  and  spend  it  they  did. 

There  is  now  lying  before  me,  yellow  with  age,  an  advertisement  cut 
from  an  old  newspaper,  which  runs  as  follows  :  "  Excellent  good  Bohea 
Tea,  imported  in  the  last  ship  from  London :  sold  by  Tho.  Hancock. 
N.B.  If  it  don't  suit  the  ladies'  taste,  they  may  return  the  tea  and 
receive  their  money  again."  Nothing,  it  seems  to  us,  could  be  fairer. 
Yet,  only  a  very  few  years  later,  the  Boston  ''ladies"  were  signing  a 
pledge  not  to  drink  the  detested  herb  ;  John  Hancock  was  offering  one 
of  his  uncle's  ships  to  carry  a  cargo  of  it  back  to  England  in  ;  and,  in 
short,  tea  had  really  become  such  a  drug  in  the  market  that  it  was 
being  thrown  overboard  to  the  fishes. 

When  Thomas  Hancock,  the  rich  merchant,  built  this  house,  in  1737, 
all  the  near  neighborhood  was  a  waste  place  covered  with  scrubby  bushes, 
like  any  other  rough  pasture  ground  ;  all  the  broad  green  slope  running 
off  in  front  of  it  a  common  grazing-field,  into  which  the  town's  cows 
were  regularly  driven  every  day  of  the  week.  This  was  that  lesser 
Boston,  at  which  modern  estheticism  now  turns  up  its  super-sensitive 
nose.  This  was  Beacon  Hill.  Most  emphatically  Beacon  Hill,  a  name 
derived  from  the  old  signal  mast  and  crate  that  stood  here,  was  one  of 
the  high  places  of  the  town.  So  long  as  the  great  field,  spreading  out 
beneath  it,  should  remain  a  common,  nothing  was  ever  likely  to  obstruct 
the  view ;  and  as  it  originally  had  been  set  apart  for  this  use  forever,  the 
old  merchant's  mind  was  in  all  likelihood  quite  at  rest  on  that  score. 

From  the  time  their  fathers  had  first  landed  at  Shawmut,  this  breezy 
hill-top  had  been  a  lookout.  Ever  since  then  the  people  of  Boston  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  climbing  it  for  the  sake  of  the  enrapturing  view  it 
unfolds,  though  they  must  now  toil  up  the  crooked  stairway  leading  to 
the  cupola  of  the  State  House,  instead  of  leisurely  following  the  wind 
ings  of  the  old  paths.  The  ground  then  finely  overlooked  all  Boston, 


4  OCR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

all  its  spacious  harbor,  all  its  islands,  far  out  into  the  sparkling  sea.  At 
its  highest  point,  which  rose  a  little  behind  the  house,  the  view  swept 
grandly  over  all  the  country  round  the  north  side  of  the  town,  and  out 
among  many  "  tall  spires  and  smoking  villages  remote." 

Thomas  Hancock  may  well  have  struck  his  gold-headed  cane  upon 
the  ground,  as  filled  with  the  delights  of  this  lovely  panorama  he 
resolved  within  himself  to  build  him  a  house  of  stone,  here  on  this 
secluded  spot,  quite  removed  from  the  stir  and  bustle  of  the  town.  No 
sooner  said  than  begun.  His  fellow-citizens  marvelled  not  a  little  how 
he  could  ever  have  chosen  such  an  out-of-the-way  site  as  this  for  his 
future  residence.  It  was  like  going  out  of  the  world  —  the  fashionable 
world,  of  course. 

While  learning  the  stationer's  trade,  Thomas  Hancock  had  also 
learned  to  love  the  stationer's  daughter,  Lydia  Henchman.  Like 
everything  else  he  touched,  his  suit  prospered,  and  he  married  her. 
There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  match  was  a  happy  one.  Her 
niece,  who  was  in  a  position  to  know  whereof  she  spoke,  pronounced 
Madam  Hancock  as  ladylike  a  person  as  ever  lived  ;  and  that  is  by  no 
means  faint  praise  from  a  woman  who  had  moved  in  the  very  best  circles 
of  both  the  Puritan  and  Quaker  capitals. 

The  house  was  built.  In  four  words  we  have  said  it ;  yet  such 
houses  are  not  now  built  in  a  day,  even  when  materials  are  so  easily 
transported  from  a  distance,  and  so  quickly  hoisted  up  into  position, 
and  this  one  was  long  in  building.  All  that  a  full  purse  could  do  or 
good  taste  suggest  was,  however,  lavished  on  the  construction.  The 
work  was  thoroughly  done,  as  all  such  work  was  in  those  days,  and 
when  completed  looked  as  if  meant  to  last  till  doomsday.  At  the  great 
fire  in  Boston  of  1872  it  was  remarked  that  the  oldest  buildings  with 
stood  the  flames  longest ;  this  one  withstood  the  attacks  of  an  army  of 
laborers,  like  a  fortress,  yielding  itself  only  stone  by  stone,  and  after  a 
long  siege. 

Behold,  then,  the  actual  founders  of  the  Boston  branch  of  the 
Hancock  family  duly  installed  in  their  new  home,  from  which,  in  a 


THE    HANCOCK  MANSION  5 

double  sense,  they  could  look  down  upon  all  the  rest  of  the  admir 
ing  town. 

It  was  a  grand  old  house,  even  when  hemmed  in  by  modern  build 
ings,  imposing  only  by  their  height,  and  the  breadth  of  their  polished 
door-plates,  and  surely  must  have  been  little  short  of  a  wonder  when 
it  was  a  new  and  fresh-looking  one.  Fifty-six  feet  front  is  not  often 
seen  among  the  residences  that  crowd  each  other  on  our  fashionable 
thoroughfares  to-day.  Then  the  grounds,  beautifully  laid  out  in  walks 
and  terraces,  reached  all  the  way  from  Mount  Vernon  to  Joy  Street. 
This  merchant  wanted  elbow-room,  and  would  have  it  ;  breathing- 
space,  with  light,  air,  and  sunshine  all  around  him,  and  plenty  of  it. 
The  house  either  began  or  closely  followed  upon  the  era  of  better 
building.  Even  when  mellow  with  age,  its  gray  walls  of  rough-dressed 
granite  were  a  most  picturesque  object.  Every  passing  pedestrian 
mechanically  slackened  his  pace  to  look  at  it.  In  every  one  it  aroused 
some  new  train  of  thought.  It  taught  history  ;  it  awakened  patriotic 
aspirations  ;  it  stimulated  honest  endeavor  ;  it  lent  an  indefinable  charm 
to  the  neighborhood  ;  it  fitted  admirably  into  its  semi-rural  surround 
ings.  Indeed,  it  was  a  charming  old  house — such  a  one  as  one's 
fancy  delights  to  run  riot  in,  and  one's  actual  body  aches  to  get  into. 
So  at  least  I  often  thought  when  I  passed  it  on  my  way  to  school.  To 
me  it  had  an  atmosphere  all  its  own.  It  fairly  radiated  luxury.  Pull 
down  that  house  !  I  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  their  chopping 
down  the  Old  Elm,  or  blowing  up  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 

Thomas  Hancock  had  taken  into  his  counting-house  on  the  Dock 
a  nephew,  John,  whom  he  designed  making  a  merchant  of  like  himself. 
Being  himself  childless,  I  think  he  must  have  looked  forward  to  per 
petuating  the  house  of  Hancock  in  this  way.  It  happened  that  the 
house  on  the  hill  was  built  the  very  year  John  Hancock  was  born. 
He  grew  up  a  high-spirited,  impulsive,  and  strikingly  good-looking 
young  man,  who,  though  only  the  son  of  a  poor  country  clergyman, 
soon  showed  a  ready  aptitude  for  the  career  his  uncle  had  chosen  for 
him.  Men  said  that  he  was  cut  out  for  a  merchant.  At  any  rate, 


6  -OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

from  the  day  that  his  uncle  adopted  him,  after  his  own  father's  early 
death,  the  gossiping  world  knew  that  John  Hancock's  fortune  was 
made.  His  uncle  sent  him  to  Harvard,  sent  him  abroad  to  polish  off 
his  provincial  manners,  inducted  him  into  all  the  mysteries  of  business, 
and,  in  short,  set  the  lucky  youngster's  foot  firmly  upon  the  rounds 
of  the  ladder  to  fame  and  fortune. 

It  was  therefore  here  that  John  Hancock  first  displayed  that  ample 
autograph,  since  so  much  admired,  which  to  a  reader  of  character  in 
handwriting  shows  about  equal  parts  of  vanity,  decision,  and  confidence 
in  himself.  He  was  a  much  prouder  man,  I  doubt  not,  when  he  first 
signed  the  name  of  Thomas  Hancock  and  Company,  than  when  signing 
the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Though  already  the  richest  man  in  the  province,  Thomas  Hancock's 
wealth  continued  to  roll  up,  snowball  like,  during  the  war  for  the  sub 
jugation  of  Canada,  from  which  as  banker  and  factor  for  the  royal 
forces  he  reaped  a  rich  harvest ;  and  just  as  that  war  ended  he  died, 
leaving  his  nephew  John  his  principal  heir,  as  well  as  the  inheritor 
of  his  extensive  business. 

To  the  imagination  of  the  people  of  that  day  the  inheritance  was 
something  immense.  Probably  it  was  somewhat  exaggerated.  Still, 
for  some  time  it  continued  to  be  the  chief  topic  of  conversation  in  the 
street,  in  the  counting-house,  and  by  the  fireside,  all  the  more  because 
the  few  really  great  fortunes  then  held  in  the  Province  could  be  counted 
on  one's  fingers  ;  and  next  to  counting  one's  own  money,  counting  that 
of  your  neighbors  is  a  most  fascinating  employment. 

Thomas  Hancock,  peace  to  his  ashes  !  was  not  one  of  the  sort  of  men 
who  never  leave  a  penny  out  of  the  family.  If  not  generous  by  nature, 
he  was  at  least  endowed  with  a  little  public  spirit.  The  world  had  made 
him  ;  the  world  should  be  a  little  better  off  for  what  it  had  done  for 
him.  He  did  something  that  no  one  had  clone  before  him.  By  the 
gift  of  a  thousand  pounds  he  became  the  first  native  of  New  England 
to  found  a  professorship  at  Harvard  University  —  that  of  Hebrew  and 
the  Oriental  tongues.  So,  too,  when  Harvard  Hall  was  burnt  in  1764, 


THE   HANCOCK  MANSION  7 

the  great  merchant  had  expressed  his  intention  of  subscribing  five  hun 
dred  pounds  toward  furnishing  a  new  library  and  philosophical  appara 
tus,  in  room  of  that  destroyed  ;  but  death  cut  him  off  from  the  fulfilment 
of  that  purpose.  His  nephew,  however,  very  honorably  carried  out  his 
uncle's  wishes  in  this  respect,  as  well  he  might,  considering  how  little 
that  item  would  have  subtracted  from  the  total  footing  of  seventy-five 
thousand  pounds,  clean  money,  in  the  late  merchant's  inventory. 

From  this  day  forth  (he  was  only  twenty-seven),  John  Hancock  be 
came  a  public  character ;  and  though  he  began  so  low  down  the  ladder 
as  selectman  of  the  town,  he  lived  to  be  president  of  the  first  congress 
of  the  Thirteen  Colonies,  or,  as  one  might  say,  selectman  of  the  nation. 
If  there  is  to  be  found  anywhere  an  instance  of  a  more  rapid  rise  to  fame 
and  fortune,  I  have  not  yet  met  with  it. 

Of  the  habitues  of  the  mansion  in  Thomas  Hancock's  time  we  know 
little.  There  were  then  no  society  journals,  and  it  is  not  our  trade  to 
draw  upon  the  imagination  in  matters  of  this  kind.  It  would  be  entirely 
safe,  however,  to  say  that  every  personage  of  note  who  visited  Boston 
hastened  to  put  his  legs  under  Thomas  Hancock's  mahogany.  From 
the  day  it  was  first  thrown  open,  the  corner-stone  of  the  mansion  was 
hospitality.  We  know  that  Generals  Amherst,  Moncton,  and  Lawrence, 
besides  many  others  of  lesser  note,  were  entertained  there.  We  have 
looked  over  the  monthly  butcher's  bill ;  and  we  have  imbibed  a  very 
distinct  notion  therefrom  that  there  were  some  rousing  dinners  given 
in  that  house,  and  much  heady  arrack-punch  drank  on  such  occasions 
as  the  King's  birthday,  for  instance.  What  would  we  not  give  to  have 
witnessed  the  stately  formality  with  which  the  Honorable  So  and  So 
bowed  himself  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  owners  of  the  best 

o 

names  in  the  town  were  assembling,  one  by  one,  or  to  have  seen  the 
antique  courtesy  with  which  Madam  Hancock  received  him  ?  There 
was  -a  liveried  black  servant  to  take  his  three-cornered  hat  and  gold- 
headed  cane  ;  another  to  laclle  him  out  a  generous  bumper  of  cool  punch. 
Then  there  was  the  host,  beaming  with  punch  and  good-humor,  to  offer 
his  own  snuff-box,  well  filled  with  fragrant  rappee  of  his  own  importa- 


8  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

tion.  As  dinner  was  announced,  all  the  company  filed  out  into  the 
spacious  dining-hall,  now  blazing  with  lights,  and  hung  round  with 
rare  old  paintings.  A  rattle  of  chairs,  and  the  guests  were  seated. 
Then  began  the  feast.  When  the  master  of  the  house,  his  face  red 
with  punch  and  emotion,  got  up  to  propose  the  one  toast  sacred  to  all 
loyal  Britons  the  world  over  (prefaced  by  "  Fill  your  glasses  ;  bumpers, 
gentlemen,  bumpers!"),  which  word  of  command  instantly  brought 
every  guest  to  his  feet,  and  every  eye  upon  the  speaker,  "  I  give  you 
his  Majesty  the  King,  God  bless  him !  "  what  a  clatter  of  glasses  went 
round  that  board,  and  what  a  dimness  was  in  the  eyes  of  our  honest 
Thomas  when  the  company  sat  down  again  ! 

There  was  such  a  thing  as  ripe  old  Madeira  in  those  days ;  and  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  the  gout. 

And  to  think  that  foremost  among  them  all,  was  that  young  man, 
whom  but  a  little  later  on  King  George  would  so  gladly  have  seen 
hanged,  at  government  expense,  if  he  could  have  caught  him  ! 

After  the  founder  of  the  family  had  been  laid  away  in  the  family 
tomb,  with  all  the  ceremonious  pomp  demanded  by  custom,  his  illus 
trious  nephew  stepped  into  his  shoes,  so  to  speak,  with  an  assured 
tread.  He  not  only  preserved,  but  so  enlarged,  the  old  hospitable 
traditions  of  the  mansion,  that  in  no  long  time  he  had  won  the  fleeting 
distinction  of  being  the  most  popular  man  in  the  Province  ;  and  what  is 
more,  his  popularity  continued  undiminishecl  down  to  the  last  hours  of 
an  eventful  life. 

This  assured  popularity  was  by  no  means  confined  to  the  male  portion 
of  the  community.  So  long  as  the  great  mansion  lacked  a  mistress,  its 
incompleteness  was  sure  to  be  the  subject  of  deep  and  heartfelt  concern 
to  all  the  scheming  mammas  of  the  Puritan  capital.  It  was  frightful  to 
think  of  this  poor,  rich  young  man  living  all  alone  in  that  great,  splendid 
mansion  with  nobody  but  an  elderly  aunt,  in  widow's  weeds  and  high 
caps,  to  pour  out  his  tea  for  him,  or  comfort  his  declining  years.  Cer 
tain  of  the  Boston  belles  —  and  there  were  some  bewitching  ones,  let 
me  tell  you  —  may  have  shared  this  opinion.  It  was  a  great  catch  !  To 
be  thus  insensible  was  worse  than  a  fault,  it  was  a  crime. 


THE   HANCOCK  MANSION  9 

Great,  therefore,  is  the  pity  that  we  should  know  no  more  than  we 
do  about  John  Hancock's  love  story  :  we  only  know  the  sequel.  At 
thirty-seven  he  was  still  unmarried,  and  at  thirty-seven  one's  youthful 
illusions  are  apt  to  have  been  more  or  less  rudely  dissipated.  We  will 
simply  tell  what  we  know,  leaving  the  impartial  reader  to  draw  his 
own  inferences. 

It  seems  that  among-  all  the  rest,  or  perhaps  before  the  rest,  Madam 
Hancock  had  picked  out  a  partner  for  her  nephew.  This  was  no  other 
than  Mistress  Dolly  Ouincy,  of  whom  the  widow  had  made  a  sort  of 
protegee  since  the  death  of  that  young  lady's  mother.  Of  course  Han 
cock  and  Miss  Dolly  were  no  strangers  to  one  another.  Their  families 
were  related,  and  hers  was  every  bit  as  good  as  his.  \Yithout  doubt  the 
lady  was  a  frequent  guest  at  the  mansion.  She  was  by  all  report  most 
attractive  in  person  and  captivating  in  manners,  un  pen  coquette  per 
haps,  yet  no  more  so  than  was  thought  permissible  in  the  line  ladies  of 
the  period.  It  is  grievous,  however,  to  have  to  believe  that  they  flirted 
most  abominably  with  the  young  British  officers,  who,  since  they  could 
not  conquer  the  men,  gladly  turned  to  the  more  congenial  employment 
of  vanquishing  the  women.  If  this  sort  of  warfare  did  not  tend  greatly 
to  embitter  the  political  situation,  why  do  we  find  John  Hancock  so 
vehemently  asking  in  his  famous  address  on  the  Massacre,  delivered  a 
full  year  before  his  marriage  :  — 

"  Did  not  our  youth  forget  they  were  Americans,  and  regardless  of 
the  admonitions  of  the  wise  and  aged  servilely  copy  from  their  tyrants 
those  vices  which  must  finally  overthrow  the  empire  of  Great  Britain  ? " 
and  then  instantly  declaring  with  a  well-feigned  sorrow,  "  And  must  I 
be  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  even  the  noblest,  fairest  part  of  all 
the  lower  creation  did  not  entirely  escape  the  cursed  snare."  We  are 
at  least  permitted  to  draw  our  own  conclusions. 

A  man  who  suffered  tortures  from  the  gout  before  he  was  fort}*  must 
have  been  a  pretty  high  liver  even  for  those  days.  Doubtless  this  was 
one  cause  of  Hancock's  irritable  temper. 

Mistress  Dorothy  Ouincy,  better  known  to  the  present  generation  as 


10  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Dorothy  O-  -,  was  the  granddaughter  of  Judge  Edmund  Quincy  of 
Braintree,  Mass.,  and  the  daughter  of  his  son  of  the  same  name.  Both 
her  aunt  and  grandmother  were  called  Dorothy,  so  that  the  name  was  a 
sort  of  inheritance  on  the  female  side.  From  this  aunt,  who  married 
Edward  Jackson,  many  eminent  men  of  that  name  are  descended, 
besides  the  poet,  O.  W.  Holmes,  and  John  Lowell,  the  founder  of  that 
peculiarly  Boston  institution,  the  Lowell  Institute. 

During  ten  years  the  mansion  had  been  the  resort  of  fashionable 
Boston.  Though  plain,  its  interior  was  elegant.  The  old  merchant's 
taste  had  run  to  things  rather  solid  than  showy,  but  his  successor  had 
transformed  the  house  into  a  veritable  palace  of  luxury,  over  which  he 
presided  with  a  courtliness  of  manner,  an  urbanity  long  remembered, 
but  now,  alas  !  fast  becoming  one  of  the  lost  arts.  He  gave  capital 
dinners,  he  dressed  superbly,  his  wines  were  the  despair  of  all  the 
epicures  of  the  town. 

These  were  the  days  of  bachelorhood,  yet  not  of  repose.  Dark 
clouds  were  gathering  all  along  the  horizon.  We  may  not  know  what 
dreams  of  domestic  happiness  had  come  to  the  envied  master  of  the 
mansion  before  the  evil  days  befell  it  and  him,  and  they  were  now  close 
at  hand.  Whatever  they  were,  the  awakening  was  rude  indeed. 

The  trumpet's  martial  sound  had  called  John  Hancock  to  confront 
his  destiny.  There  was  no  escaping  that  call.  From  politician,  Han 
cock  had  gradually  advanced  to  patriot  and  rebel,  without  which  there 
would  have  been  no  such  summons  for  him.  The  call  was  peremptory, 
imperious,  startling.  He  could  not  have  helped  seeing  the  hated  red 
coats  pitch  their  first  camp  down  there  on  the  Common  at  his  feet,  or 
shut  his  eyes  to  its  meaning.  With  the  dawn,  their  bugles  rang  out  the 
rule  of  the  bayonet ;  and  you  can  do  anything  with  that  sharp  instru 
ment,  says  the  proverb,  except  sit  on  it.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  his 
ears  tingled  with  the  din  of  the  fifes  and  drums  of  eleven  British  regi 
ments.  His  hot  blood  boiled  at  the  mocking  taunts  of  the  beardless 
subalterns.  He  saw  himself  at  last  forced  to  choose  between  King  and 
country,  freedom  or  despotism,  and  to  choose  quickly.  And  for  him  the 


THE   HANCOCK  MANSION  1 1 

decision  involved  a  sacrifice  such  as  no  other  man  in  the  Province,  high 
or  low,  had  been  called  upon  to  make  —  no,  not  one.  Let  us  not  forget 
that. 

We  know  that  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  well-to-do  merchants 
of  Hancock's  day  were  out-and-out  Tories.  These  were  the  loyal 
Faneuils,  Vassalls,  Olivers,  Royalls,  Pepperells,  etc.  Even  some  fami 
lies  were  divided  politically.  A  moment's  reflection,  therefore,  shows 
us  how  deeply  society  in  the  Puritan  capital  must  have  felt  the 
shock  of  such  a  political  and  social  upheaval.  At  Tory  tables  the 
officers  of  the  army  and  navy  were  constantly  entertained,  the  King's 
health  regularly  drank,  the  rebels  as  regularly  consigned  to  everlasting 
perdition.  At  houses  like  Hancock's  the  company  wore  anxious  faces, 
toasts  were  drank  in  silence,  and  all  the  talk  was  carried  on  in  under 
tones. 

Hancock  has  been  called  vain  and  vacillating.  That  is  probably 
true  enough.  The  Royalists  believed,  or  pretended  to  believe,  that 
Sam  Adams  led  Hancock  about  by  the  nose.  They  even  went  so  far 
as  to  nickname  him  Johnny  Dupe.  All  know  the  story  told  by 
Dr.  Waterhouse,  that  as  the  two  Adamses,  John  and  Samuel,  were 
one  day  taking  a  stroll  together  on  the  Common,  when  they  had  come 
opposite  to  the  Hancock  mansion,  Samuel  said  to  John,  "  I  have  done 
a  very  good  thing  for  our  cause  in  the  course  of  the  past  week,  by 
enlisting  the  master  of  that  house  into  it.  He  is  well  disposed,  and 
has  great  riches,  and  we  can  give  him  consequence  to  enjoy  them." 
This  same  idea  was  probably  echoed  in  the  popular  saying  that  Sam 
Adams  did  the  writing,  and  John  Hancock  paid  the  postage.  Our 
own  opinion  is  that  there  is  far  more  pungency  than  truth  in  that 
saying. 

John  Hancock's  choice  was  for  him  nothing  less  than  a  sentence 
of  banishment.  Arch-traitor,  vile  conspirator,  rebel,  were  the  mildest 
epithets  commonly  applied  to  him.  King  Hancock  was  derisively 
added.  The  house  on  the  hill  was  shut  up ;  its  owner  became  a 
proscribed  traitor  and  fugitive.  We  next  find  him  presiding  over  the 


12  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

fateful  deliberations  of  the  Provincial  Congress,  with  all  the  dignity  and 
firmness  which  the  gravity  of  the  situation  demanded.  The  country 
was  arming.  Day  by  day  the  tension  was  growing  more  and  more 
unendurable.  Something  must  give  way. 

"The  first  drop  of  blood  may  be  considered  as  the  signal  of  civil 
war,"  said  Edward  Gibbon.  This  sinister  prediction  was  to  be  verified 
only  too  soon.  On  the  very  night  before  the  battle  of  Lexington, 
Hancock  had  come  down  there  with  Adams  to  snatch  a  little  allevia 
tion  from  the  work  and  worry  of  official  duties.  The  two  patriots 
alighted  together  at  the  now  historic  parsonage.  Two  anxious  women 
were  waiting  to  throw  themselves  into  Hancock's  arms.  One  was  his 
aunt,  Lydia  ;  the  other — tell  it  not — his  betrothed  wife,  Miss  Doro 
thy  Quincy. 

The  storm  burst  upon  them  while  they  were  asleep  in  their  beds. 
At  midnight  Revere  rode  up  to  the  door  with  his  horse  dripping  with 
foam.  Then  came  the  horrid  clang  of  the  church  bell,  summoning  the 
minute-men  to  arms.  No  more  sleep  that  night. 

It  needs  no  seer  to  tell  us  of  the  pale  and  haggard  faces  in  the 
parsonage  when  the  daylight  stole  in,  as  into  a  death  chamber ;  of 
the  stern  and  impassable  Adams,  or  the  nervous,  impulsive  Hancock. 
Were  ever  two  men  so  differently  constituted,  so  linked  together 
in  a  common  destiny !  Hancock  nervously  trying  the  lock  of  his 
musket,  Adams  standing  with  folded  arms  calmly  waiting  for  the  hour 
of  destiny  to  strike.  They  heard  a  confused  murmur  of  voices,  like  the 
gust  preceding  the  storm  ;  then  a  ringing  Word  of  command,  and  then 
a  rattling  volley  followed  by  a  few  scattering  shots.  Then  there  rose 
a  loud  huzza  of  triumph,  followed  by  the  silence  of  death.  It  was  all 
over.  The  first  blood  had  been  shed. 

Hancock,  we  are  told,  would  have  rushed  off  into  the  thickest  of  the 
fight,  had  not  the  two  frightened  and  hysterical  women  clung  to  him 
so  tenaciously  that  he  was  unable  to  free  himself  from  their  grasp. 

After  the  first  fright  had  a  little  subsided,  Mistress  Ouincy  impul 
sively  declared  her  purpose  of  going  back  to  her  father  in  Boston  at 


THE   HANCOCK  MANSION  13 

once.  At  this  announcement  Hancock  flared  up.  "  No,  madam,"  said 
he,  "  you  shall  not  return  as  long  as  there  is  a  British  bayonet  left  in 
Boston."  "Shall  not,  indeed !"  cried  Mistress  Dolly.  "Recollect, 
Mr.  Hancock,  I  am  not  under  your  control  yet ;  and  I  shall  go  in  to 
my  father  to-morrow."  She  afterwards  very  frankly  said  that  at  that 
moment  she  should  have  been  only  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  him. 

We  have  accepted  the  story,  literally,  as  a  somewhat  curious  indica 
tion  of  how  people  who  have  been  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch 
sometimes  relieve  the  tension  they  can  no  longer  bear.  A  lovers' 
quarrel  as  the  sequel  to  the  slaughter  that  had  just  taken  place  is 
a  strange  anti-climax,  to  our  way  of  thinking. 

Failing  to  lay  hands  upon  its  master,  the  King's  soldiers  proceeded 
to  vent  their  senseless  spite  upon  the  deserted  mansion.  They  hacked 
and  hewed  the  fences,  broke  the  windows,  spoiled  the  shrubbery, 
without  let  or  hindrance,  until  General  Gage  sent  Lord  Percy  to 
occupy  it  as  his  headquarters.  From  this  time  until  the  evacuation 
of  the  town  in  March,  1776,  the  house  was  appropriated  to  the  use 
first,  of  Percy,  then  of  Clinton,  and  lastly  of  the  gourmand,  General 
Grant.  It  was,  certainly,  one  means  of  protection,  if  not  precisely  what 
the  owner  himself  would  have  preferred.  His  trusty  agent,  Isaac  Caz- 
neau,  however,  had  taken  the  precaution  to  put  some  of  the  best  furni 
ture,  with  the  most  costly  china  and  glassware,  under  lock  and  key. 
When  Clinton  came  into  possession  he  demanded  the  key  of  this 
strong  chamber  on  the  pretence  of  searching  it  for  seditious  papers. 
Having  received  it  from  the  reluctant  major-domo,  Clinton  drew  these 
treasures  from  their  hiding-place,  gave  Cazneau  a  scolding  for  his 
pains,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  curt  good-morning. 

One  peculiar  feature  of  all  of  these  old  houses  was  the  secret  hid 
ing  places  with  which  they  were  furnished,  known  perhaps  only  to  the 
person  who  had  caused  their  construction.  The  Hancock  House  was 
no  exception.  Not  many  years  before  it  was  torn  down,  the  family 
were  one  day  at  dinner,  when  suddenly  the  panel  of  a  closet  fell  in, 
disclosing  a  receptacle  hitherto  unknown  and  unsuspected.  The 


14  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

secret,  therefore,  must  have  been  well  kept.  The  place  was  empty,  but 
was  probably  once  used  by  Hancock  to  secrete  his  valuables  in,  and 
the  knowledge  of  it  had  died  with  him. 

Save  that  the  fences  of  the  neighboring-  pasture,  where  the  State 
House  now  stands,  were  carried  off  by  the  red-coats  for  fuel,  as  legiti 
mate  spoils  of  war,  and  the  turning  of  the  carriage-house,  at  the  west 
side,  into  a  hospital,  after  Bunker  Hill  battle,  the  house  suffered  little 
at  the  hands  of  the  soldiery.  Doubtless  many  a  poor  joke  was  cracked 
at  Hancock's  expense,  at  his  own  table,  over  his  own  wine,  so  long  as 
the  cellar  held  out ;  but  at  last  there  came  a  day  when  peremptory 
notice  to  quit  was  served  on  all  the  scarlet-coated  gentry  from  George 
Washington's  rebel  cannon.  They  had  promised  to  make  Hancock 
dance  upon  nothing,  and  Washington  now  furnished  them  with  the 
music. 

It  was  at  this  time,  when  propositions  for  burning  the  town,  or  carry 
ing  it  by  assault,  were  being  anxiously  discussed  at  the  patriot  head 
quarters,  and  when  Hancock  was  presiding  over  the  deliberations  of 
the  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  that  he  wrote  the  commander-in-chief,  "  I 
pray  God  to  crown  your  assault  with  success,  though  I  may  be  the 
greatest  sufferer."  He  had  already  said  the  same  thing  more  than 
once. 

During  this  eventful  year  one  never-failing  solace  came  to  light  up 
the  proscribed  patriot's  solitary  pathway.  In  the  early  autumn  of  1775 
he  was  united  in  marriage  to  his  lady-love,  Dorothy  Quincy.  The  cere 
mony  took  place  at  the  house  of  Thaddeus  Burr,  at  Fairfield,  Connecti 
cut,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Eliot  officiating. 

From  some  old  letters  of  hers  written  to  her  father,  who  had  gone 
to  live  at  Lancaster,  Mass.,  pending  the  troubles,  we  learn  that  Mrs. 
Hancock  was  kept  busy  in  directing  commissions,  in  trimming  off  with 
her  scissors  the  rough  edges  of  the  coarse  Continental  notes,  and  in 
packing  them  up  to  be  sent  off  to  the  army.  Thus  the  honeymoon 
was  passed.  Philadelphia  she  did  not  like.  During  the  spring  of 
1776  the  happy  couple  boarded  with  a  Mrs.  Yard,  whose  charges 


THE   HANCOCK  MANSION  15 

were  at  the  very  moderate  rate  of  £$   a  week,  firewood  and  candles 
extra  as  in  Europe. 

Of  Hancock's  record  as  president  of  Congress,  we  need  say  no  more 
here  than  that  he  never  shirked  the  responsibility  of  his  office,  let  the 
danger  to  him  personally  be  what  it  might.  He  had  much  of  the 
Jacksonian  fearlessness  in  his  composition.  With  Aclams  he  had  been 
raised  to  the  perilous  dignity  of  a  proscribed  man.  The  temper  of 
Congress  may  be  judged  by  the  remark  made  by  Benjamin  Harrison, 
when  almost  carrying  Hancock  to  the  chair.  Said  he,  "  We  will  show 
Britain  how  much  we  value  her  proscription." 

Once  more  installed  on  his  own  hearthstone,  after  an  absence  of  two 
and  a  half  years,  Hancock  found  abundant  occupation  in  putting  his 
house  in  order,  in  gathering  up  the  loose  ends  of  his  long- neglected 
private  affairs,  and  in  receiving  congratulatory  visits,  or  ceremonious 
calls,  or  in  entertaining  the  numerous  civil  and  military  personages 
who  for  the  time  being  found  themselves  in  Boston.  During  the  five 
years  next  following  Hancock's  return  from  Philadelphia,  dukes,  counts, 
and  marquises  were  no  unfrequent  guests  at  the  mansion  ;  for  Boston, 
being  the  only  port  of  consequence  not  in  the  enemy's  hands,  became 
the  rendezvous  for  the  French  squadrons  from  time  to  time.  When 
Admiral  D'Estaing  was  in  this  harbor,  as  many  as  forty  of  his  officers 
dined  every  day  at  the  Hancocks'  table. 

In  all  the  hospitalities  of  the  house,  Madam  Hancock  bore  her  full 
portion,  and  bore  it  well.  Though  not  a  highly-educated  woman,  she 
had  her  full  share  of  mother  wit,  which  made  her  a  charming  and  viva 
cious  companion,  especially  to  gentlemen.  And  notwithstanding  the 
almost  unbearable  conduct  she  sometimes  experienced  from  the 
governor,  who  was  as  autocratic  in  his  own  house  as  the  czar  in 
his  palace,  she  used  so  much  tact  as  really  to  manage  him.  I  had 
it  from  excellent  authority  that  the  governor  once  brutally  beat  a 
domestic  for  bringing  him  some  refreshments  in  a  china  instead  of  a 
pewter  dish.  As  the  governor  died  without  making  a  will,  there  was, 
of  course,  no  provision  for  the  widow,  except  what  the  law  gave  her. 


1 6  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

That  event,  therefore,  wrought  a  marked  change  in  her  worldly  condi 
tion,  though  it  does  not  appear  to  have  quenched  her  exuberant  spirits. 
She  married  again.  This  husband,  Captain  Scott,  a  splendid  seaman, 
who  had  sailed  some  of  Hancock's  ships,  also  left  her  a  widow,  with 
only  a  moderate  income,  —  certainly  a  great  change  for  one  accustomed 
to  everything  wealth  could  give. 

John  Hancock  was  only  fifty- six  when  he  died.  At  fifty  he  was 
already  an  old  man,  so  debilitated  by  frequent  attacks  of  the  gout  as  to 
have  to  be  carried  about  by  his  servants  when  the  performance  of  some 
public  duty  made  his  presence  imperative.  Such  appearances  then  as 
sumed  a  truly  dramatic  character.  The  Hancocks  do  not  seem  to  have 
been  a  long-lived  family.  John's  uncle,  Thomas,  was  under  sixty  when 
he  died.  Notwithstanding  the  many  honors  he  had  received,  there  is 
something  saddening  in  this  brief  retrospect  of  Hancock's  life.  It 
almost  seems  as  if  the  cup  of  gratified  ambition  was  ever  being  dashed 
from  his  lips.  Burke's  wise  saying  that  one  might  as  well  expect  to  be 
happy  without  virtue  as  without  health  seems  exactly  to  fit  the  case. 
Well,  the  old  house  was  pulled  clown.  Peace  to  its  ashes !  Our 
streets  bristle  with  monuments  to  this  or  that  celebrity.  But  where,  oh, 
where,  is  the  monument  to  John  Hancock  ?  Echo  answers,  where  ? 

Madam  Hancock,  on  the  contrary,  lived  to  a  good  old  age.  To  the 
day  of  her  death  she  was  as  scrupulously  attentive  to  her  personal 
appearance  as  when  she  was  a  reigning  bello-  in  the  first  circles  of 
fashion.  It  was  a  maxim  with  her  that  one  owed  it  to  one's  self  to  look 
as  well  as  one  could,  or  as  she  herself  put  it,  "  She  would  never  forgive 
a  young  girl  who  did  not  dress  to  please,  nor  one  who  seemed  pleased 
with  her  dress."  If  the  woman  of  the  world  spoke  out  here,  we  are  no 
longer  at  a  loss  to  know  how  she  came  to  play  her  role  of  the  first  lady 
of  the  Commonwealth  to  such  perfection. 


THE   HOME    OF  PAUL   REVERE 


THE   HOME  OF   PAUL   REVERE 

BOSTON,    MASS. 

No  city  of  America  has  preserved  its  antiquities  with  greater  venera 
tion  than  has  Boston,  and  no  other  American  city  is  so  rich  in  me 
morials  of  the  successive  steps  by  which  we  rose  to  be  a  great  nation. 
(True,  we  may  not  be  able  to  say  this  of  Boston  much  longer,  but  let  us 
say  it,  at  least,  while  we  can.)  The  shout  of  thanksgiving  which  went 
up  when  at  last,  after  its  terrible  baptism  of  fire,  the  Old  South  stood 
scathless,  was  echoed  all  over  the  land  ;  and  even  a  faint  cheer  was 
heard  from  the  scarce-rebuilt  homes  of  those  who,  not  long  before, 
sought  our  destruction  sword  in  hand. 

There  is  then  something  which  unites  the  sentimental  to  the  prac 
tical  part  of  us,  like  the  soul  to  the  body.  There  is  then  something  in 
the  aspect  of  exterior  objects  which  arouses  the  imagination,  as  nothing 
else  can.  With  the  aid  of  this  mysterious  conductor  we  swiftly  traverse 
all  the  labyrinths  of  the  past.  By  its  quickening  power,  the  dumb 
speak,  the  dead  are  brought  to  life.  Let  him  who  is  without  imagina 
tion  cast  the  first  stone. 

Macaulay  has  said,  prophetically  and  wisely,  that  "  a  people  which 
takes  no  pride  in  the  noble  achievements  of  remote  ancestors,  will 
never  achieve  anything  worthy  to  be  remembered  with  pride  by  remote 
descendants."  I  confess  that  I  am  much  of  that  man's  mind.  It  is 
true  that  we  have  pride  enough,  and  to  spare  ;  but  are  we  not  some 
thing  deficient  in  that  practical  wisdom  so  necessary  to  its  efficiency, 
and  which  so  often  comes  too  late  ?  It  is  true  that  we  cannot  stay  the 
march  of  improvement,  that  ruthless  juggernaut  of  our  times  ;  but  we 
can  at  least  ransom  our  most  precious  treasures  out  of  the  spoiler's 
hands  ;  we  can  fight  money  with  money. 


1 8  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Every  great  city  is  an  example  of  that  unaccountable  shifting  about 
of  the  population,  by  which  what  perhaps  was  once  its  most  fashionable 
quarter  has  been  finally  consigned  to  the  sons  of  poverty  and  toil.  In 
Boston,  thanks  to  this  poverty,  we  have  yet  something  to  show  the 
stranger  far  better  and  more  interesting  than  the  splendid  structures 
common  to  all  American  cities.  Let  us  first  walk  that  way. 

That  part  of  the  old  city,  spreading  out  on  the  north  of  New 
Washington  Street,  has  undergone  little  change  in  the  last  forty  or  fifty 
years.  It  has  of  course  grown  older,  but  it  is  at  least  so  far  recog 
nizable  as  to  be  about  the  only  section  in  which  men  now  past  middle 
age  feel  quite  at  home.  Here  are  all  the  old  names,  some  of  the  old 
shops,  and  many  of  the  old  houses.  Now  and  then  one  has  been 
burned  down.  Here  and  there  a  new  one  has  gone  up  ;  yet  to  all 
intents  the  Old  North  End  looks  much  as  it  did  when  some  of  the 
best  families  were  still  living  there,  and  when  what  was  more  truly  the 
Back  Bay  then,  than  now,  was  known  as  a  place  where  minnows  were 
caught  in  summer,  and  smelts  in  winter.  But  first  fashion  forsook  it ; 
then  progress  turned  its  relentless  back  ;  so  that  at  length  it  has 
mostly  been  given  up  to  the  under-stratum  of  society,  who,  we  are 
forced  to  admit,  must  live  somewhere. 

What  would  probably  surprise  the  stranger  most  of  all,  would  be  to 
tell  him  that  the  cheap  tenement-houses,  now  swarming  with  occupants, 
could  ever  have  held  up  their  heads  among  the  most  aristocratic 
residences  of  the  city  or  town.  It  is  by  far  the  most  impressive 
lesson  in  material  evolution  he  could  have.  It  is  the  outgrown 
garment  ;  it  is  the  poor  relation  upon  whom  the  rich  man  now  turns 
his  back. 

Say  that  we  have  by  chance  directed  our  steps  toward  North  Square. 
In  these  narrow  streets  where  the  taller  houses  seem  in  great  danger 
of  knocking  their  heads  together,  and  across  which  neighbors  could 
gossip  quite  at  their  ease,  a  square  is  no  more  what  its  name  implies 
than  a  napkin  is  a  tablecloth.  In  all  the  older  parts  of  Boston  it  is 
a  diminutive  space,  either  round,  oval,  or  three-cornered,  but  seldom 


THE   HOME    OF  PAUL   REVERE  1 9 

square.  Here  it  is  three-cornered.  As  little  breathing-places,  they 
could  never  serve  a  better  purpose  than  they  do  in  this  overcrowded 
section  of  an  overcrowded  city,  where  pure  air  is  indeed  a  luxury. 
Pah  !  the  atmosphere  is  actually  thick  with  the  vile  odors  of  garlic  and 
onions  —  of  maccaroni  and  lazzaroni.  The  dirty  tenements  swarm 
with  greasy,  voluble  Italians,  and  bear  such  signs  as  Banca  Italiane, 
Grocery  Italiane,  Hotel  Italiane,  constantly  repeated  from  door  to 
door.  One  can  scarce  hear  the  sound  of  his  own  English  mother- 
tongue  from  one  end  of  the  square  to  the  other ;  and  finally  (can  we 
believe  the  evidence  of  our  own  eyes  ?  ) ,  here  is  good  Father  Taylor's 
old  brick  Bethel  turned  into  a  Catholic  chapel !  What  would  Father 
Taylor  have  said  to  that  ?  Shade  of  Cotton  Mather !  has  it  come 
to  this,  that  a  mass-house  should  stand  within  the  very  pale  of  the 
thrice  consecrated  old  Puritan  sanctuary  ? 

How  those  old  fellows  would  have  stared,  to  be  sure,  to  hear  of 
a  Boston  with  an  Italian  quarter,  a  Chinese  quarter,  a  Negro  quarter, 
etc.  !  Is  this  that  greater  Boston  we  are  now  hearing  so  much 
about  ?  Let  us  rather  talk  a  little  about  that  lesser  Boston,  that  was, 
we  engage,  a  pretty  good  place  to  live  in,  after  all. 

One  group  of  crazy  old  tenements,  fit  habitation  for  owls  or  bats, 
but  scarcely  for  human  beings,  long  stood  at  the  narrow  entrance  to  the 
Square.  Before  the  foreign  invasion  took  place,  an  air  of  unspeakable 
loneliness  pervaded  the  irregular  space  shut  in  by  walls  converging 
to  the  narrow  opening.  The  tide  of  travel  flowed  by  it  along  North 
Street  on  one  side,  and  along*  Hanover  Street  on  the  other.  Now  and 

o 

then  an  unfrequent  pedestrian,  or  more  unfrequent  vehicle,  would  drift 
out  of  the  current,  up  the  little  ascent  and  into  the  Square,  as  waifs 
in  an  eddy.  For  all  the  evidence  of  city  life  or  bustle,  it  might  have 
been  a  lost  locality. 

What  we  now  call  North  Street,  was  long  ago  named  Anne,  for  good 
Queen  Anne,  daughter  of  that  bad  King  James.  Its  course  lay  along 
the  wharves;  its  inhabitants  lived  by  the  shipping.  In  course  of  time 
it  became  a  sort  of  Wapping,  where  vice  of  every  sort  ran  riot,  and  into 


20  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

which  it  was  hardly  safe  to  venture  after  dark.  About  every  other 
house  was  either  a  dram-shop  or  a  brothel.  Some  short-sighted 
moralists  thought  the  evil  could  be  cured  by  a  simple  change  of  name. 
So  from  Anne  it  became  North.  It  was  not,  however,  until  the  occu 
pation  of  a  portion  of  the  street  for  business  purposes,  that  its  char 
acter  was,  to  some  extent,  retrieved  by  rooting  out  the  vile  dens  that 
had  so  long  flourished  at  the  expense  of  Poor  Jack. 

But  prior  to  that  time  there  were  few  situations  in  all  Boston  more 
desirable  than  North  Square.  And  in  the  fulness  of  its  historic 
associations,  it  is  unsurpassed  by  any  other  locality  we  can  now  call 
to  mind.  One  might  easily  have  believed  it  a  bit  carved  out  of 
London,  so  like  was  the  neighborhood  in  the  names  of  its  streets,  in 
the  quaint,  oddly-constructed  shops  and  warehouses,  and  even  in  the 
signs  that  creaked  above  the  tavern  doors.  There  was  the  King's 
Head  in  Fleet  Street,  borrowed  from  its  famed  progenitor  in  Chancery 
Lane,  in  which  Cowley  was  born,  Titus  Oates's  conspirators  assembled, 
and  where  the  pope-day  exhibitions  originated.  There  were  the 
Red  Lyon  dating  back  to  1676,  and  the  King's  Arms,  in  Fish  Street  ; 
and,  somewhat  later,  the  sign  of  David  Porter,  father  of  the  hero  of 
1812,  and  grandfather  of  the  late  admiral,  made  its  bow,  so  to  speak, 
to  the  public  in  the  same  thoroughfare. 

The  old  building  seen  in  the  illustration  is  one  of  the  very  few 
remaining  examples  of  the  quaint  overhanging  upper  stories  once 
so  common  in  Boston.  It  is  believed  to  have  been  erected  not  long 
after  the  destructive  fire  of  1676.  In  the  year  1735,  of  our  present 
style,  a  matron  at  the  North  Fnd  of  Boston  made  a  New  Year's  present 
to  her  husband  of  a  boy,  subsequently  christened  Paul  Revere.  This  is 
the  house  in  which  Paul  Revere  lived  both  before  and  during  the  Rev 
olution  ;  the  same  Revere  whose  daring  midnight  ride  to  Lexington 
Longfellow's  stirring  poem  has  rendered  so  famous.  In  this  house 
Revere  profitably  carried  on  his  trade  of  a  silversmith,  now  and  then 
turning  his  hand  to  engraving  on  copper,  and  even  to  dentistry  when 
he  could  get  a  customer.  Among  the  works  he  engraved  we  might 


THE   HOME    OF  PAUL   REVERE 


2  I 


mention  the  so-called  Bloody  Massacre  in  King  Street,  in  which, 
as  a  piece  of  realism  wholly  original,  a  dog-  stands  unconcernedly 
looking  on,  in  the  foreground,  while  the  murderous  volley  is  being 
fired  off  immediately  over  his  head. 

From  this  house   Revere  showed  his  home-made  transparencies  on 
the    next   anniversary  of  this   shocking  event,   one  of  which  exhibited 


i?  UBJ  iw 


PAUL  REVERE'S  HOME. 

the  ghost  of  a  victim  to  British  bullets  vainly  trying  to  staunch  with  his 
fingers  the  flow  of  blood  from  a  gaping  wound  in  his  side.  Such 
exhibitions  then  had  a  prodigious  effect  upon  the  minds  of  the  popu 
lace,  and  Revere  must  already  be  recognized  as  a  power  in  moulding 
popular  opinion.  Perhaps  his  Huguenot  blood  flowed  faster  than  that 
of  his  more  phlegmatic  neighbors,  and  very  possibly  he  was  quicker 
to  see  the  shadow  of  coming  events.  In  everything  requiring  spirit, 
decision,  and  pluck,  Revere  had  a  helping  hand,  not  indeed  as  a  leader, 
but  as  a  trusted  lieutenant  of  the  leaders. 


22  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

It  was  from  this  house,  as  we  have  said,  that  Paul  Revere,  booted 
and  spurred  for  the  road,  started  off  for  his  memorable  ride  to  Lex 
ington  on  the  evening  of  April  18,  1775.  His  graphic,  yet  simple, 
account  of  it  lay  imbedded  in  the  pages  of  a  work  known  to  but  few, 
even  in  his  day,  until  at  length  it  fell  under  the  eye  of  Mr.  Longfellow. 
From  that  moment  Revere's  reputation  was  made.  Yet  it  is  doubtful  if 
he  himself  thought  he  had  done  anything  so  very  remarkable.  The 
poet  —  such  is  fame!  —  has  placed  Revere  in  a  niche  higher  than  he 
could  ever  have  dreamed  of  occupying -- higher,  indeed,  than  many 
whose  deserts  were  far  greater  than  his. 

At  the  time  that  Revere  lived  here,  the  Square  could  boast  two  of 
the  best  private  mansions  in  the  town,  besides  the  Second  Church, 
which  General  Howe  wickedly  caused  to  be  pulled  clown  during  the 
siege  to  make  firewood  of  for  his  soldiers.  All  the  Mathers,  so  cele 
brated  in  the  ecclesiastical  history  of  New  England,  except  Richard, 
who  settled  at  Dorchester,  preached  there.  And  from  that  pulpit 
emanated  most  of  the  sermons  by  which  Cotton  Mather's  complete 
ascendency  over  all  of  his  contemporaries,  both  as  preacher  and  writer, 
was  so  fully  established. 

Of  the  two  mansions  referred  to,  the  first  was  that  of  Sir  Charles 
Henry  Frankland,  bart,  whose  miraculous  rescue  from  the  great  earth 
quake  at  Lisbon,  in  Portugal,  is  perhaps  familiar  to  the  reader  through 
the  poem  of  Holmes,  or  the  memoir  by  Nason.  The  whole  career  of 
this  gallant  wooer,  careless  official,  but  noble  gentleman,  is  extremely 
romantic  :  — 

"  Tis  like  some  poet's  pictured  trance 

His  idle  rhymes  recite, 
This  old  New-England-born  romance 


Of  Agnes  and  the  knight." 


If  you  have  read  the  poem  or  the  biography  you  know  the  sequel  ; 
how  Sir  Harry  married  the  lowly  Marblehead  girl,  and  rescued  her  as 
she  had  rescued  him. 

We  pass  on   to  his  next  neighbor,  Governor  Thomas  Hutchinson, 


THE   HOME    OF  PAUL   REVERE  23 

courtly,  learned,  and  astute,  but  wholly  alien  to  the  cause  of  his  country 
men,  and  hated  all  the  more  because  he  was  a  Bostonian  by  birth. 
This  neighborhood  witnessed  one  of  the  violent  scenes  of  the  Stamp- 
Act  riot,  when  the  governor's  house  was  pillaged,  and  the  mob,  made 
drunk  with  his  own  wine,  would  have  sacrificed  him  to  its  fury  had  he 
not  sought  shelter  in  the  near-by  house  of  his  brother-in-law,  the  Rev. 
Samuel  Mather.  When  the  mob  demanded  that  the  governor  be  given 
up  to  them,  the  stout-hearted  minister  told  them  that  his  house  was 
his  castle,  and  that  he  should  protect  his  brother  Hutchinson,  even 
though  their  sentiments  clicl  not  agree.  The  governor  finally  made  his 
escape  by  a  back  way,  and  appeared  in  court  the  next  day  —  which,  as 
chief-justice,  it  was  his  office  to  open  —  without  either  gown  or  wig. 
Such  was  the  importance  attached  to  these  articles  of  dress,  that  Hutch 
inson  apologized  for  appearing  without  them.  With  tears  in  his  eyes 
he  told  the  court  that  the  very  coat  he  had  on  was  borrowed.  What  a 
situation  for  the  second  officer  in  the  province ! 

We  learn  from  a  journal  written  by  her  own  hand  that  on  the  night 
before  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  Samuel  Mather's  daughter  Hannah, 
having  first  procured  a  pass  from  General  Howe,  proceeded  to  the 
Charlestown  ferry-way,  one  of  the  two  exits  from  the  town.  Though 
his  orders  were  strict,  the  gallant  captain  of  the  guard,  knowing  the 
young  lady  well,  passed  her  without  difficulty,  and  she  crossed  the  river 
in  the  last  boat  after  sunset.  A  little  after  nine  o'clock  she  presented 
herself  at  the  meeting-house  at  Watertown,  where  the  Provincial  Con 
gress  was  then  sitting,  and  asked  for  Dr.  Warren.  He  came  to  the 
door,  and  the  lady  took  from  her  bosom  a  despatch,  which  she  had 
undertaken  to  place  in  his  hands.  He  took  the  despatch,  and  said,  with 
his  interesting  smile,  "  You  shall  see  me  in  the  morning."  That  night 
was  his  last  on  earth. 

Some  other  residents  of  North  Square  have  left  their  names  to  us. 
The  father  of  Major  Samuel  Shaw,  Knox's  talented  aide-de-camp,  lived 
here.  In  Shaw's  house  were  quartered  Major  Pitcairn  and  Lieutenant 
Wragg,  the  first  of  whom  was  mortally,  the  other  slightly,  wounded  at 


24  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

Bunker  Hill.  We  have  it  that  for  some  remarks  made  at  table, 
Samuel  Shaw,  an  ardent  young-  rebel,  challenged  the  subaltern,  pre 
ferring  to  cross  swords  rather  than  break  bread  with  his  father's  unwel 
come  guest. 

Edward  Holyoke,  president  of  Harvard  in  1737,  was  born  in  this 
part  of  the  town  ;  and  still  another  president,  Edward  Everett,  lived  in 
early  youth  in  Proctor's  Lane,  now  Richmond  Street. 

North  Square  is  also  the  reputed  scene  of  Captain  Kemble's  very 
heinous  offence  against  public  morality,  in  kissing  his  wife  in  the  open 
street,  where  he  happened  unexpectedly  to  meet  her  after  landing  from 
a  long  sea-voyage.  Kissing  one's  wife  in  public  must  have  gone  out 
of  fashion  at  about  that  time. 

There  is  also  a  weird,  uncanny  odor  of  witchcraft  clinging  about  the 
old  triangle.  One  gooclwife  was  pronounced  a  witch  on  no  other 
grounds  than  of  her  suspicious  fondness  for  cats,  of  which  felines  she 
never  had  fewer  than  the  cabalistic  number  of  nine.  The  gossips 
declared  that  she  consulted  her  cats,  as  the  ancients  consulted  their 
oracles.  It  is  quite  possible  that  she  could  enjoy  the  ascendency  her 
evil  reputation  gave  her  over  her  weak-minded  neighbors.  Still  another 
beldam  was  popularly  believed  to  be  in  the  habit  of  making  nightly 
trips  to  Bermuda  in  an  egg-shell,  returning  before  daylight  with  a 
supply  of  fresh  rosemary,  which  happened  to  be  in  great  request.  On 
such  idle  tales  the  lives  of  individuals  often  hung  suspended  in  the 
balance.  Viewed  by  our  civilization,  they  seem  like  nursery- tales, 
made  to  frighten  unruly  children  with  ;  nevertheless,  they  are  hard, 
uncompromising  facts  that  look  us  boldly  in  the  face  as  we  turn  over 
the  pages  of  history. 

One  thing  more  and  we  shall  have  done  with  the  old  square  and 
its  unsavory  traditions.  Father  Taylor  was  preaching  here  in  the  Sea 
men's  Bethel,  at  the  east  side,  when  Charles  Dickens,  the  novelist, 
went  to  hear  him,  and  was  so  greatly  impressed  and  astonished  at  the 
preacher's  wonderful  power  over  the  rude  wayfarers  of  the  sea  who  made 
up  the  congregations.  In  his  "  American  Notes,"  Dickens  has  given  an 


THE   HOME    OF  PAUL   REVERE  25 

account  of  Father  Taylor's  personal  appearance,  and  manner  of  deliv 
ery,  in  his  own  inimitable  way  ;  and  those  who  may  have  had  the  good- 
fortune  to  hear  this  good  and  faithful  servant  of  God,  and  lover  of  his 
fellow-men,  pour  out  his  rugged  eloquence  from  the  pulpit,  like  a  tor 
rent  carrying  all  before  it,  will  find  the  picture  not  overdrawn.  It  was 
a  stony  vineyard  ;  but  the  brave  old  man  put  his  hand  and  gave  his 
heart  unfalteringly  to  the  work,  and  his  memory,  like  some  beautiful 
flower  on  a  heap  of  garbage,  still  blossoms  in  this  desert.  Many  a 
strong  man  has  never  before  been  so  touched  as  to  have  to  hide  his 
emotion  as  when  listening  to  Father  Taylor.  In  fact,  his  power  was 
wonderful.  I  recollect  but  one  speaker  who  could  so  sway  the  emo 
tions  of  his  hearers  as  he.  That  was  Rufus  Choate. 

But  no  contrast  could  be  half  so  forcible  as  that  between  the  past 
and  present  of  this  square.      More's  the  pity. 


26  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


THE  GOVERNOR  CRADOCK  HOUSE 

MEDFORI),   MASS. 

OF  all  the  old  buildings  going  back  to  the  colonial  period,  which 
accident  has  left  unharmed,  the  subject  we  here  illustrate  must  be  con 
sidered  the  patriarch.  It  is  much  the  oldest  building  in  New  England, 
if  not  the  oldest  in  the  United  States  retaining  its  original  form.  It 

o  o 

derives  additional  interest  as  the  handiwork  of  the  first  planters  in  the 
vicinity  of  Boston,  and  as  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  very  first,  brick 
houses  erected  within  the  government  of  John  Winthrop.  Not  only  is 
its  title  to  antiquity  thus  secure  ;  but  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  be  able  to 
say  of  this  venerable  relic,  as  we  now  do,  that  it  still  stands!  In  it  we 
have  an  enduring  monument  to  the  founders  of  New  England.  We 
are  much  struck  with  the  idea  that  it  is  as  old  as  our  own  history  is  in 
this  New  England  land.  Taken  with  one  of  our  newest  constructions 
it  spans  the  whole  period  of  time  comprised  between  the  coming  of  our 
ancestors  and  the  birth  of  the  New  Year,  1893. 

Every  man,  woman,  and  child,  in  Medford,  knows  the  "  Old  Fort," 
as  the  older  inhabitants  love  to  call  it,  and  will  point  out  the  site  to  you 
with  visible  pride  that  their  growing  city  contains  so  interesting  a  relic. 
Seven  or  eight  minutes  of  moderate  walking,  from  the  Glenwood 
station  of  the  Medford  Branch  railroad,  brings  you  to  the  object  of 
your  search,  which  stands  on  a  little  swell  of  ground,  facing  the  Mystic 
River,  from  which,  however,  it  is  some  distance  back.  Within  twenty 
years  the  region  roundabout  has  become  quite  populous.  New  streets 
have  invaded  what  was  then  the  country.  New  houses  have  sprung  up 
on  all  sides.  Yet  no  difficulty  will  be  experienced  in  finding  the  Old 
Fort ;  it  is  sui  generis. 


THE    GOVERNOR    CRADOCK  HOUSE  27 

As  touching  this  familiar  name  of  the  Old  Fort,  when  this  house 
was  built,  it  of  course  stood  all  alone  ;  it  was  completely  isolated. 
The  occupants  were  few  ;  the  country  on  every  side  was  swarming 
with  wild  beasts  and  scarce  less  savage  men.  Settlements  were  few 
and  far  between.  Escape  could  be  easily  cut  off.  Hence,  the  idea 
of  defence  is  here  everywhere  prominent ;  hence,  the  very  briefest 
survey  quite  conclusively  establishes  the  belief  that  this  building 
was  meant  to  be  both  house  and  castle.  We  think  it  was  designed 
first  of  all  as  a  trading-post,  similar  to  that  of  Samuel  Maverick 
at  Winnisimmet,  and  was  therefore  so  built  as  to  stand  a  siege,  if 
need  be,  or  resist  any  attempt  to  burn  it  over  the  heads  of  the 
occupants. 

The  situation  was  well  chosen  for  defence.  It  has  the  river  in  front, 
marshes  at  the  east,  and  did  have  a  considerable  stretch  of  level 
meadow  behind  it.  As  it  was  from  this  quarter  that  an  attack  was 
most  to  be  feared,  greater  precautions  were  taken  to  secure  this  side. 
The  house  itself  is  placed  a  little  above  the  general  level.  For  a  cen 
tury  and  a  half  it  stood  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  field  of  open 
ground,  this  being  surrounded  by  a  high  palisade,  guarded  by  stout 
gates.  No  foe  could  approach  unseen  by  day,  or  find  a  vantage- 
ground  from  which  to  assail  the  inmates.  As  a  solitary  outpost  it  was 
victualled,  garrisoned,  and  furnished  with  the  means  of  defence,  just 
the  same  as  would  be  done  to-day  by  some  equally  remote  corner 
of  our  national  domain,  under  similar  conditions. 

There  is  another  thing  about  the  location,  if  it  seem  strange  to  the 
looker-on  of  to-day.  Those  men  of  substance  who  came  over  in 
the  great  emigration  of  1630,  and  who  brought  cattle  with  them, 
almost  immediately  found  themselves  forced  out  of  the  peninsula 
of  Charlestown  for  want  of  grazing-ground.  In  a  wilderness,  cleared 
land  was  not  to  be  had.  The  most  desirable  spots,  therefore,  for 
farmers  with  cattle,  were  the  lands  in  the  near  vicinity  of  salt-marshes, 
on  which  their  cattle  could  be  turned  out  to  graze.  All  along  the 
Mystic  there  is  a  vast  extent  of  salt-meadow,  so  great  a  breadth  of  it, 


28  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

indeed,  that  it  may  well  have  suggested  the  entirely  happy  name 
of  Meadford,  now  clipped  to  Medford. 

By  reference  to  the  Charlestown  records  it  appears  that  Cradock's 
farm,  with  its  belongings,  was  also  called  Mystic,  and  that  the  river 
flowing  out  before  it  took  its  name  from  the  farm. 

Here,  then,  the  agents  of  Matthew  Cradock,  citizen  and  skinner 
of  London  town,  first  governor  of  the  Massachusetts  Company,  in  the 
earlv  stao-e  of  its  organization  built  the  house  that  shall  tell  now  and 

^  o  o 

hereafter  the  story  of  his  work  in  behalf  of  the  colony  far  more 
eloquently  than  we  can  ever  hope  to  do. 

As  the  surroundings  are  by  no  means  deficient  in  historic  or 
picturesque  interest,  let  us  for  a  moment  indulge  ourselves  in  glancing 
over  the  wide  panorama  visible  to  the  dwellers  in  this  ancient  mansion. 

Behind  us  rise  up  bold  and  austere  the  shaggy  undulations  of  a  chain 
of  hills,  that,  after  rearing  here  a  series  of  frowning  ridges,  stretches 
off  to  the  ocean  at  Nahant.  This  region,  with  its  own  lakes,  its  cliffs, 
its  cascades,  as  wild  and  romantic  as  the  most  ardent  lover  of  nature 
could  wish  for,  as  peaceful  and  retired  as  the  most  inveterate  lover 
of  solitude  could  desire,  seems  set  apart  by  nature  as  a  breathing- 
place  for  the  half-million  people  to-day  closing  up  around  it,  and  the 
still  more  dense  populations  to  come.  This  last  stronghold  of  nature 
is  known  as  the  Middlesex  Fells. 

Turning  now  to  the  opposite  shores  of  the  Mystic,  we  first  see  what 
was  formerly  known  as  the  "  Ten- Hills  Farm,"  granted  to  Governor 
Winthrop  in  1631,  in  whose  time  it  reckoned  some  six  hundred  broad 
acres,  though  not  much  else  is  now  left  except  the  name  he  gave  it. 
But  for  some  years  the  houses  of  the  two  governors  beamed  pleasantly 
upon  each  other  across  the  water,  at  every  rising  of  the  sun,  and  gave 
out  neighborly  signal-smokes  in  testimony  that  the  light  on  their 
hearths  was  still  unquenched.  For  was  it  not  literally  a  howling  wilder 
ness  ?  The  governor  himself  tells  us  how  hungry  wolves  daily  came 
prowling  around  his  house  ;  and  he  has  also  most  conscientiously  set 
down  what  befell  him  one  night  when  he  went  out  with  his  gun  to  get 


THE    GOVERNOR    CRADOCK  HOUSE  29 

a  shot  at  one,  how  he  lost  his  way,  got  hopelessly  bewildered,  and  after 
struggling  some  hours  through  briers  and  thickets  finally  came  across  a 
miserable  Indian  hovel  in  which  he  passed  the  night.  This  adventure 
took  place  among  the  thickets  of  Somerville  and  Meclford,  incredible 
story  to  us  who  see  nothing  there  now  but  scores  of  lofty  spires  and 
miles  of  glistening  housetops. 

Then  there  are  the  hills  beyond,  which  formed  part  of  the  Ameri 
can  line  of  investment  during  the  siege  of  Boston.  But  they  are  no 
longer  what  they  were.  It  is  no  longer  a  miracle  to  remove  mountains. 
Bold  Putnam  declared  Prospect  Hill  impregnable  ;  but  what  the  British 
could  not  take,  the  city  fathers  of  Somerville  have  taken. 

Farther  to  the  left  is  Bunker  Hill ;  and  beyond  that  again  rises  the 
shapely  gray  shaft  commemorating  the  battle,  which  the  inmates  of  this 
house  anxiously  watched  till  the  last  gun  was  fired.  So  we  see  all 
around  us  a  veritable  historic  panorama.  But  to  our  story. 

There  hangs  in  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Commonwealth, 
at  Boston,  the  charter  of  "  The  Governor  and  Company  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Bay  in  New  England,"  brought  over  by  Winthrop  in  1630. 
The  great  seal  of  England,  a  most  ponderous  and  convincing  symbol 
of  authority,  is  appended  to  it.  We  do  not  believe  it  was  so  con 
spicuously  displayed  at  first. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  settlement  of  Salem,  begun  two  years 
earlier  under  the  leadership  of  Enclicott,  was  set  on  foot  by  this 
same  commercial  company,  of  which  Matthew  Craclock  was  the  first 
governor.  It  is  also  well  known,  that  in  order  to  induce  such  men 
as  Winthrop,  Dudley,  Johnson,  Saltonstall,  and  others  to  emigrate, 
and  so  cast  in  their  own  fortunes  with  that  of  the  colony,  Cradock 
himself  proposed  the  transfer  of  the  government  from  England  to 
New  England.  Whether  this  was  done  solely  upon  his  own  motion 
does  not  clearly  appear,  but  at  any  rate  he  has  the  credit  of  being 
the  prime  mover  in  it.  So  the  making  of  New  England  began  then 
and  there. 

We  cannot  enter  into   the    political    aspects    of   this    coup    d'etat. 


30  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

Doubtless  they  were  fully  understood  by  the  actors  in  it.  That  it 
was  a  more  than  bold  move  is  apparent  enough,  even  at  this  distance 
of  time ;  and  as  such  it  must  ever  challenge  the  attention  of  the 
student  of  American  history.  In  spite  of  the  clear  intent  of  their 
grant  from  the  crown,  which  had  merely  set  up  another  commercial 
corporation,  like  the  India  Company,  with  officers  resident  in  Eng 
land,  these  associates  quietly  proceeded  to  nullify  it  by  removing 
their  government  to  America.  There  was  an  evident  desire  to  get 
out  of  reach  of  the  lion's  big  paw,  strongly  suggestive  of  a  purpose 
to  beard  the  lion,  but  not  in  his  own  den.  When  the  project  was 
first  brought  forward  by  Cradock,  the  strictest  secrecy  was  enjoined 
upon  all  the  members.  That  he  was  its  avowed  author  must  be 
our  apology  for  introducing  the  incident.  No  one  can  deny  that 
his  political  wisdom  has  been  more  than  justified  by  events,  or  that 
his  voluntary  surrender  of  office  did  not  proclaim  an  unselfish  devotion 
to  the  cause,  worthy  of  all  praise. 

Craclock  never  came  over  himself,  yet  there  are  grounds  for 
believing  that  he  meant  to  do  so  sooner  or  later.  He  was  a  man 
having  large  interests,  and  the  Atlantic  voyage  was  by  no  means 
the  little  pleasure  trip  it  has  since  become.  All  this,  however,  is 
conjecture.  Yet  it  seems  unlikely  that  he  should  have  spent  so 
much  money  here  unless  he  really  intended  to  see  for  himself  what 
was  being  done  with  it.  He  did  send  over,  however,  agents,  or 
"  servants  "  as  they  were  styled,  one  of  whom,  Samuel  Sharp,  was 
a  member  of  Endicott's  Council  at  Salem  ;  and  it  is  not  at  all 
improbable  that  Sharp,  whose  name  is  at  least  suggestive,  may  have 
been  instructed  to  look  over  the  ground,  with  a  view  to  locating 
a  grant  for  Cradock.  We  know  that  this  plantation  must  have  been 
established  very  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  colonists  at  Charles- 
town  ;  though  this  information  comes  to  us  only  through  the  medium 
of  an  inquest  held  upon  the  body  of  one  Austen  Bratcher,  who 
came  to  his  death  at  the  hands  of  Walter  Palmer,  there,  both 
being  Cradock's  men.  The  story  thus  sadly  begins  with  a  homicide. 


THE    GOVERNOR    CRADOCK  HOUSE.  31 

For  the  shrewd  man  of  business  he  undoubtedly  was,  Cradock 
seems  to  have  been  singularly  unfortunate  in  some  of  his  servants. 
One  had  his  ears  cropped,  and  was  banished  out  of  the  jurisdiction  ; 
another  was  whipped  ;  and  still  another  was  bitterly  complained 
of  for  his  peculations.  These  things  bear  out  the  inference  that 
Cradock's  servants  must  have  followed  a  rather  wild  life  when  this 
old  house  was  new,  or  their  riotous  way  of  living  would  not  so 
often  have  invoked  condign  punishment.  They  were  where  they 
could  snap  their  fingers  at  the  master,  but  not  beyond  the  reach 
of  that  long-armed  Puritan  justice,  so  different  from  the  modern 
sort  of  thinof. 

o 

To  his  other  undertakings,  in  support  of  the  new  colony,  Cradock 
had  added  fishing  and  ship- building.  For  the  fishery  he  had  set 
up  houses  at  Ipswich  and  Marble  head  in  the  infancy  of  these 
plantations.  In  aid  of  this  important  industry  he  began  ship 
building  here,  on  the  Mystic.  Quaint  old  William  Wood,  in  his 
New  England's  Prospect,  gives  us  a  passing  glimpse  of  what  was 
going  on  here,  so  soon  as  the  year  after  Cradock's  men  first  broke 
ground.  Would  that  he  had  given  us  more  !  He  says  that  Master 
Cradock  had  impaled  a  park,  for  keeping  his  cattle  until  he  could 
stock  it  with  deer  ;  and  adds,  "  Here,  likewise,  he  is  at  charges  of 
building  ships.  The  last  year  (1632)  one  was  upon  the  stocks 
of  a  hundred  tons  ;  that  being  finished,  they  are  to  build  one  twice 
her  burden.  Ships  without  either  ballast  or  loading  may  float  down 
this  river;  otherwise  the  oyster-bank  would  hinder  them  which 
crosseth  the  channel." 

Either  we  have  not  read  history  right,  or  Matthew  Cradock  did 
more  than  any  other  ten  men  toward  setting  this  colony  on  its  feet. 
Without  great  exaggeration  he  might  be  called  its  patron  saint, 
guardian,  protector.  He  furnished  ships,  money,  credit,  goods,  most 
lavishly.  He  helped  about  everybody  who  wanted  to  come  over 
and  who  needed  help  —  Roger  Williams  among  the  rest.  He  made 
the  enterprise  respectable  from  a  financial  and  business  point  of 


32  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

view,  so  that  other  men  were  not  afraid  to  embark  in  it.  And  of  him 
all  we  have  left  is  the  house  he  built  to  give  the  enterprise  a  start,  — 
a  boom  as  we  call  it  to-day. 

All  hail  to  thee,  then,  thou  grisly  relic  of  bygone  clays  !  Thou 
Alpha  and  Omega  of  what  civilization  has  done  in  all  these  eventful 
years.  Glad  are  we  that  in  thine  old  age  thou  art  not  to  be 
turned  over  to  the  cold  mercies  of  a  pitiless  world.  And  may  thy 
days  be  yet  long  in  the  land  we  love  ! 

\Yith  this  general  glance  at  Matthew  Cradock  and  his  plans  we 
can  see  for  ourselves  that  he  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  to  be 
dropped  out  of  history.  Such  plans  as  his  could  not  have  been 
consummated  without  a  very  large  outlay.  Some  one  has  said  that 
three  things  are  wanting  to  found  a  colony.  The  first  is  money ; 
the  second  is  money ;  and  the  third  is  money.  Matthew  Cradock 
knew  this.  Let  us  turn  now  to  the  house  itself,  the  first  to  be 
built  in  Medford,  and  the  last,  let  us  hope,  to  be  pulled  down. 
That  the  date  of  its  erection  cannot  be  more  accurately  fixed  is 
much  to  be  regretted.  The  same  may  be  said,  however,  of  most  of 
our  old  buildings,  the  preservation  of  the  date  being  the  exception 
rather  than  the  rule.  In  regard  to  the  Cradock  house  we  have 

o 

unbroken  tradition ;  we  have  the  evidence  of  experts  ;  and  both 
agree  in  making  it  the  patriarch  of  all  the  old  houses  now  standing 
in  New  England. 

Unique  specimen  of  the  architecture  of  the  early  settlers,  it  must 
be  considered  a  gem  of  its  kind.  In  no  essential  feature  is  it  dis 
guised  by  modern  alterations,  but  proudly  bears  its  credentials  on 
its  weather-beaten  face.  The  oldest  living  inhabitant  does  not 
remember  when  it  looked  differently  —  when  it  was  not  already 
old.  His  great-grandfather  probably  said  the  same  thing. 

Time  has  dealt  gently  with  this  venerable  relic.  Two  hundred 
and  sixty  odd  New  England  winters  -  -  no  zephyrs  they  -  -  have 
searched  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  old  fortress,  have  whistled 
down  the  big  chimney-stack,  have  rattled  the  window-panes  in 


THE    GOVERNOR    CRADOCK  HOUSE  33 

impotent  rage,  have  heaped  high  their  snows  upon  stout  roof  and 
massy  rafter  all  in  vain.  Like  Bunker  Hill  monument,  there  it 
stands.  Though  hoary  with  age,  it  is  not  a  ruin  ;  though  the  first 
house  built  in  Medford,  it  is  yet  a  comfortable  habitation. 

Like  a  veteran  of  many  campaigns,  however,  the  Cradock  House 
does  show  a  few  honorable  scars.  These  are  its  best  credentials 
to  antiquity.  Part  of  the  east  wall  has  been  rebuilt,  as  can  readily 
be  detected  in  the  picture  ;  perhaps  the  roof  has  swerved  somewhat 
from  its  true  outline  ;  one  chimney  has  come  down  ;  and  the  loop 
holes  seen  in  the  front  wall,  through  which  the  watchful  sentinel 
half  thrust  his  trusty  matchlock,  as  he  searched  the  shores  around 
for  some  lurking  danger,  were  for  a  long  time  closed  up,  though 
since  restored.  And  then  the  windows  have  been  enlarged  to  the 
detriment  of  the  ensemble,  in  order  to  admit  more  liorht  and  air.  In 

o 

no  sense  can  these  alterations  be  called  improvements.  You  cannot 
modernize  an  old  building ;  the  marks  of  age  will  stick  out  somewhere. 

How  many  generations  of  men  —  and  this  house  has  seldom  if 
ever  been  untenanted  —  have  lived  and  died  within  those  walls  ?  It 
seems  almost  a  triumph  of  matter  over  mind,  since  it  has  outlived 
them  all.  It  is  impossible  to  exclude  from  our  minds  the  idea  that 
such  houses  have  a  certain  human  character,  a  lifelike  part  in  human 
history,  they  seem  so  crowded  with  the  secrets  of  those  who  have 
lived  in  them.  One  look  sets  all  the  fibres  of  that  marvellous  thing 
we  call  memory  vibrating  within  us.  The  dumb  speak :  the  dead 
live  again. 

When  this  house  was  built,  Charles  I.  reigned  in  Old  England 
and  Cromwell  had  not  yet  begun  his  great  career.  Peter  the  Great 
was  not  then  born  ;  and  the  house  was  waxing  in  years  when  that 
prodigy  of  his  age,  Frederick  the  Great,  appeared  on  the  stage  to 
show  Europe  how  the  part  of  a  monarch  should  be  played.  We 
seem  to  be  speaking  of  some  recent  event  —  of  to-day  —  when  Louis 
XVI.  suffered  by  the  axe  of  the  guillotine,  and  when  Napoleon's 
sun  rose  in  splendor,  to  set  in  darkness. 


34  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

The  native  Indian,  who  witnessed  its  slowly- ascending-  walls  with 
wonder  and  misgiving ;  the  alien  Englishman,  whose  axe  wakened 
new  and  unheard  echoes  in  the  primeval  forest  ;  the  colonist  native 
to  the  soil,  who  battled  and  died  within  view,  to  found  a  new  nation,— 
have  all  passed  away.  But  here  is  this  old  mansion,  the  silent,  the 
undisputed  witness  of  all  those  great  epochs  of  our  history.  Shall 
we  not  then  call  it  a  monument?  We  have  said  that  it  is  not  clear 
at  just  what  time  the  house  was  first  erected  ;  but  it  has  usually 
been  fixed  in  the  year  1634,  at  which  time  a  large  land-grant  was 
made  to  Cradock  by  the  General  Court  at  this  place.  The  bricks 
are  said  to  have  been  burned  near  by,  as  bricks  are  to-day.  There 
was  even  some  little  attempt  at  ornament,  as  seen  in  the  lower 
course  of  the  belt  which  is  so  laid  as  to  form  a  cornice.  The  loop 
holes  were  for  both  watch  and  ward ;  the  walls  half  a  yard  in 
thickness.  Ponderous  iron  bars  secured  the  arched  windows  at 
the  back,  and  the  entrance-door  was  strongly  cased  in  iron.  The 
fire-proof  closets,  huge  chimney-stacks,  and  massive  hewn  timbers, 
all  told  of  strength  and  durability  in  the  builder's  plan.  A  single 
pane  of  glass,  set  in  iron,  and  placed  in  the  back  wall  of  the  western 
chimney,  overlooked  the  approach  from  the  town.  It  was,  in  short, 
just  such  a  house  as  might  have  served  the  turn  even  of  an  inhabi 
tant  of  the  Scottish  border,  with  its  loop-holes,  narrow  windows, 
and  doors  sheathed  in  iron.  Against  an  Indian  foray  it  was 
impregnable. 

Cradock  was  perhaps  the  only  man  connected  with  the  early 
settlement  in  Massachusetts  Bay  whose  means  admitted  of  his 
building  such  a  house.  We  know,  of  course,  that  many  brick  houses 
were  erected  in  Boston  during  the  first  decade  of  its  history ;  but 
we  have  found  none  that  can  lay  claim  to  quite  such  an  ancient 
pedigree  as  this  one  of  which  we  are  now  writing.  As  one  fore 
most  in  the  good  work,  Cradock  seems  to  have  done  not  only  his 
full  share,  but  done  it  in  the  most  thorough  manner.  It  is  far 
from  improbable  that,  having  in  view  a  future  residence  in  New 


THE    GOVERNOR    CRADOCK  HOUSE 


35 


England,  Cradock  himself  may  have  given  directions  for  its  build 
ing.  At  any  rate,  when  in  after  years  he  was  breasting  alone  the 
storm  the  colonists  had  raised  about  his  ears,  he  must  often  have 
wished  himself  there.  Possibly  this  house  may  have  been  suggested 
by  his  own  residence  in  St.  Swithin's  Lane,  near  London  Stone. 
Of  course,  a  structure  going  back  to  so  remote  a  period  for  New 


THE    GOVERNOR    CRADOCK    HOUSE,    MEDFORD,    MASS. 

England  could  not  well  be  without  its  legendary  lore.  There  is, 
in  fact,  a  tradition  running  to  the  effect  that  this  old  fort  was  at 
one  time  beleaguered  for  several  clays  together  by  an  Indian  war- 
party,  who,  after  finding  that  they  could  make  no  impression  on  its 
thick  walls,  while  the  fire  from  the  garrison  was  thinning  their 
own  ranks,  finally  drew  off  from  the  attack.  Though  there  is  no 
authentic  record  of  this  affair,  Indians  were  doubtless  plenty  enough 
in  the  vicinity  ;  and  though  generally  peaceable  enough  if  let  alone, 


36  OCR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

they  were  always  regarded  with  more  or  less  distrust.  The  settler 
seldom  stirred  abroad  without  his  trusty  matchlock  and  well-filled 
bandoleer.  We  cannot  give  a  better  picture  of  the  times  than 
that  simple  yet  graphic  one  of  MacFingal:  — 

"  For  once,  for  fear  of  Indian  beating, 
Our  grandsires  bore  their  guns  to  meeting , 
Each   man  equipped  on   Sunday  morn, 
With  psalm-book,  shot,  and  powder-horn  ; 
And  looked  in  form,  as  all  must  grant, 
Like  the  ancient,  true  church-militant ; 
Or  fierce,  like  modern  deep  divines, 
Who  fight  with  quills,  like  porcupines." 

It   would    be    a    thousand    shames    to    let    such    a   building,    with 

o 

such  a  history,  go  to  wreck  and  ruin.  How  pleasant  it  is  there 
fore  to  be  able  to  say  that  its  future,  so  long  in  doubt,  is  at  last 
secure.  As  he  himself  says  in  a  note  to  the  writer,  General  Samuel 
C.  Lawrence  bought  the  Cradock  House  first  "  to  save  it  from 
demolition,  and  after  to  plan  for  its  preservation  as  a  permanent 
monument  to  the  founder  of  Meclforcl."  The  people  of  Medford 
are  to  be  congratulated  upon  having  a  citizen  at  once  so  public- 
spirited,  and  yet  again  possessed  of  such  enlightened  views.  Most 
heartily  do  we  wish  there  were  more  like  him.  His  restoring  hand 
is  already  visible  in  the  improved  appearance  of  the  old  structure, 
and  through  him  and  it  may  the  name  of  Matthew  Cradock  become 
better  known  among  us  than  it  is  ! 


HOBGOBLIN  HALL  37 


HOBGOBLIN    HALL 

MEDFORD,    MASS. 

"  A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall 
Now  sotneivliat  fallen  to  decay  " 

ONE  fine  day,  while  sauntering  about  the  pleasant  town  of 
Medford,  so  rich  in  specimens  of  ancient  architecture,  I  was  much 
struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  house  standing  at  the  left  side  of 
the  old  Boston  road,  not  half  a  mile  out  of  the  village.  It  bore  so 
strongly  the  face  and  impress  of  a  decayed  grandeur,  that  I  knew 
it  at '  once  for  one  of  those  elegant  country-seats  to  which  the 
magnates  of  the  good  old  colony  times,  as  well  as  of  our  own,  loved 
to  retire  from  the  cares  of  active  business.  I  at  once  sought  an 
entrance,  with  full  design  to  know  its  history. 

There  was  no  mistake  about  this  house.  It  bore  the  genuine 
stamp  of  antiquity  on  its  face,  as  clearly  as  if  the  year  of  the  reign 
of  King  George  II.,  in  which  it  was  erected,  had  challenged  atten 
tion  from  above  the  entrance-door.  No  modern  iconoclast  had  yet 
reared  a  hideous  mansard  roof  above  it ;  no  destroying  axe  had 
yet  been  laid  at  the  root  of  the  stately  elms  that  stood,  like  giant 
guardians  as  they  were,  along  the  splendid  old  drive. 

The  grounds,  once  laid  out  in  most  correct  taste,  were  separated 
from  the  highway  by  a  low  brick  wall.  From  the  gateway,  flanked 
by  tall  wooden  columns,  a  broad  avenue,  bordered  with  aromatic 
box,  led  straight  up  to  the  house,  situated  at  some  seventy  paces 
back  from  the  road.  The  space  between  was  embellished  with 
shrubbery,  fruit  and  shade  trees.  To  the  right,  as  you  looked 


3  8  OUR    COLO  XI A  I.    HOMES 

toward   the    mansion,   was   the   driveway,   with   a   massive    stone  gate 
post  of  imposing  size  standing  at  either  side. 

Now  that  the  Hancock  House  is  no  more,  this  house  remains 
about  the  only  example  of  that  early  date  and  style  still  to  be  found 
among  us.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  some  public-spirited  citizen 
could  not  come  forward  to  buy  this  house  for  a  residence,  and  so 
possess  himself  of  something  genuinely  colonial  in  its  every  nook 
and  corner,  both  inside  and  out. 


HOP.GOBLIN    HALL,    MEDFORD,    MASS. 

Imagine  a  very  large,  three-story  brick  house,  sheathed  entirely 
in  wood,  except  at  one  end,  and  having,  as  is  customary  when  the 
upper  story  is  lower  studded,  the  upper  tier  of  windows  smaller 
than  those  underneath  them.  All  the  spaces  below  the  windows  of 
the  east  front,  toward  which  I  was  looking,  were  filled  in  with 
panels,  so  that  from  ground  to  cornice  the  windows  rose  in  the 
form  of  columns.  The  reason  which  prompted  the  owner  to  make 
the  west  front  by  far  the  most  ornamental  does  not  readily  appear ; 


HOBGOBLIN  HALL  39 

but  certain  it  was  that  the  mansion,  in  defiance  apparently  of  the 
homely  maxim,  "  Put  your  best  foot  foremost,"  has  very  cavalierly 
turned  its  back  upon  the  street,  as  if  to  ignore,  as  much  as  possible, 
what  was  passing  in  the  outer  and  humble  world  around. 

Sufficient  unto  himself,  no  doubt,  with  his  gardens,  his  slaves, 
and  his  rich  wines,  was  the  old  Antigua  merchant,  Isaac  Royall, 
who  came  in  1737  from  his  tropical  home,  bringing  his  tropical 
habits  with  him,  to  rear  what  passed  for  a  palace  in  his  day,  in 
this  country  village,  for  such  he  found  it.  Isaac  Royall  the  first, 
the  author  of  this  charming  country-seat,  soon  died,  and  was 
succeeded  by  Isaac  the  second,  who  inherited  the  five  hundred 
paternal  acres,  "  turf  and  twig,"  with  the  mansion,  human  chattels, 
and  other  worldly  possessions  of  his  deceased  sire. 

The  carriage-drive  terminated  at  the  back  of  the  mansion  in 
a  court-yard  paved  with  small,  smooth  beach  stones,  through  the 
interstices  of  which  the  grass  grew  thickly.  To  the  right  of  the 
drive  were  the  stables,  while  just  beyond  the  house  were  the  slave- 
quarters,  fronting  on  the  court-yard,  which  was  thus  enclosed  upon 
three  of  its  sides.  The  two-story  brick  building  occupied  by  the 
negroes  was  still  remaining,  the  last  visible  relic  of  slavery  in  New 

J">  O '  J 

England.  The  deep  fireplace  in  which  the  blacks  had  prepared  their 
food  was  still  there  ;  and  the  roll  of  slaves  has  certainly  been  called 
in  sight  of  Bunker  Hill,  though  never,  I  believe,  on  its  summit. 

On  the  fourth  side  of  the  court-yard  there  rose  a  high  brick  wall, 
similar  to  that  already  mentioned,  which  opened  by  an  arched  gate 
way  into  another  beautiful  garden,  in  which  some  of  the  old  box- 
trees  and  clumps  of  lilacs  were  still  growing  here  and  there.  A 
gravelled  walk  led  to  the  farther  end  of  the  garden,  where  an 
artificial  mound  with  two  terraces  had  been  raised  to  make  a  base  for 
a  summer-house  on  which  a  dilapidated  figure  of  Mercury,  minus 
wings  and  arms,  was  poised,  unable  to  fly,  unwilling  to  fall.  The 
garden  front  of  the  house  overlooked  this  enclosure,  evidently  the 
favorite  resort  of  the  family  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  The  summer- 


40  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

house,  a  veritable  curiosity,  displayed  much  beauty  of  design,  with 
its  panels,  its  tinted  pilasters,  and  its  bell-shaped  roof.  An  artist 
made  the  plan  for  this  little  structure,  now  so  delightfully  ruinous 
and  picturesque.  There  was  a  trap-door  in  the  floor,  which,  when 
raised,  disclosed  a  cellar,  formerly  used  for  the  storage  of  ice,  so  that 
beauty  and  utility  were  here  combined. 

The  Royall  mansion  was  modelled  after  that  of  a  nobleman  at 
Antigua.  Everything  was  in  perfect  keeping;  everything  bore  the 
impress  of  a  cultivated  taste  and  a  full  purse.  Mounting  the  steps 
of  his  coach,  the  owner  rolled  away  in  state  to  attend  the  meet 
ings  of  the  Great  and  General  Court  at  Boston,  paid  visits  to 
his  neighbor  Temple  at  Ten  Hills,  or  his  sister  Vassall  at  Cam 
bridge.  Here,  too,  came  George  Erving  and  Sir  William  Pepperell  the 
younger  to  woo  the  West  Indian  nabob's  daughters ;  and  greatly  I 
mistake  if  the  walls  of  that  same  dilapidated  summer-house  could  not 
have  told  of  many  a  whispered  love- tryst  held  therein.  Why,  it  was 
the  very  place  for  a  stolen  interview  or  a  tender  declaration  ! 

Hut  one  day  Isaac  Royall  ordered  his  coach  to  ride  to  Boston 
to  dine.  He  never  came  back  again. 

While  he  was  sipping  his  Madeira  as  a  gentleman  connoisseur 
should,  in  serene  and  innocent  enjoyment  with  his  Tory  friends, 
the  news  of  the  battle  of  Lexington  burst  upon  them  like  lightning 
from  a  clear  sky.  The  whole  town  knew,  indeed,  that  the  regulars 
had  gone  out,  but  few  believed  that  any  powder  would  be  burned 
in  consequence.  Perhaps  the  convives  had  even  grown  a  little  jolly 
drinking  the  kind's  health, —  "God  bless  him!"  and  confusion  to 

o  <> 

all  traitors  —  "Hang  them!"  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that 
the  hurry  and  fright  of  that  terrible  day  were  too  much  for  the 
poor  Tory  gentleman.  Within  sight  of  his  house  the  regulars  had 
been  fought  with  hand  to  hand,  and  much  blood  spilled.  Percy 
and  Smith  had  seen  the  roads  black  with  men  eager  for  blood.  A 
thousand  rumors  were  abroad.  On  every  hand  armed  rebels  were 
swarming  like  locusts  from  the  ground  as  if  rebellion  had  stamped 


HOBGOBLIN  HALL  41 

her  armed  heel,  and  her  legions  had  come  forth.  And  so  it  was 
that  suddenly  abandoning  his  own  much  loved  home,  with  all  its  enjoy 
ments,  its  life  of  ease,  its  tender  memories,  Isaac  Royall  found  himself 
unexpectedly  shut  up  in  Boston,  with  open  rebellion  at  its  gates. 

Meanwhile,  all  New  England  was  on  the  march  for  Boston. 
Among  those  who  pitched  their  improvised  camps  in  this  neigh 
borhood  were  some  New  Hampshire  troops.  Their  commander, 
Colonel  John  Stark,  a  rough  diamond  of  the  first  water,  found  the 
Royall  family  living  between  fear  and  despair  at  the  sudden  turn 
their  affairs  had  taken.  They  were  afraid  of  the  rude  soldiery. 
They  were  in  despair  at  the  loss  of  their  head.  Stark  offered  him 
self  as  a  safeguard,  was  thankfully  accepted,  and  moved  in. 

It  is  supposed  that  the  house  was  vacated  soon  after  the  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill,  as  Stark  was  immediately  ordered  to  take  post 
on  Winter  Hill,  and  there  remained  during  the  siege.  It  is  also 
presumed  that  the  family  were  permitted  to  rejoin  the  derelict 
husband  and  father  in  Boston. 

Before  any  of  these  things  we  have  related  had  happened, 
Colonel  Royall,  who  was  a  man  of  peace  at  any  price,  seems  to 
have  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  to  Antigua,  but  had  too 
long  delayed.  He  now  took  passage  for  Halifax ;  and  finally,  when 
Howe,  with  his  long  train  of  refugees,  arrived  from  Boston,  he 
also  departed  for  England,  and  there  died,  sighing  for  his  beautiful 
home  in  America,  and  striving  to  the  last,  though  always  unsuccess 
fully,  to  avert  the  forfeiture  of  his  estate. 

Peace  be  with  him,  for  an  inoffensive,  well-meaning,  but  shock 
ingly  timid  old  Tory !  He  would  fain  have  lived  in  amity  with  all 
men ;  but  the  crisis  ingulfed  him  with  its  fell  sweep,  and  he  was 
dragged  down,  protesting  to  deaf  ears.  His  fears  counselled  him 
to  run,  and  he  obeyed.  But  he  is  not  forgotten.  His  works  live  after 
him.  His  large-hearted  benevolence  showed  itself  through  many  be 
quests  to  that  country  from  which  he  was  an  alien  only  in  name.  The 
Royall  Professorship  of  Law  at  Harvard  was  founded  by  his  bounty. 


42  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

He  has  a  town  (Royalston)  in  Massachusetts  named  for  him,  and  is 
remembered  with  kindly  feelings  in  this  the  place  of  his  former  abode. 

After  having  rambled  through  the  grounds  to  my  full  content,  I 
returned  to  the  house,  all  the  better  prepared  to  inspect  its  interior. 

Lingering  in  the  entrance  hall  only  long  enough  to  admire  the 
elaborately  carved  balusters  and  the  panelled  wainscot,  I  first  passed 
into  the  suite  of  apartments  at  the  right,  the  reception-rooms  proper 
of  the  house.  These  rooms  were  separated  by  an  arch,  in  which 
sliding  doors  were  concealed  ;  and  from  floor  to  ceiling  the  walls 
were  panelled  in  wood,  the  panels  being  of  single  pieces,  some  of 
which  were  a  full  yard  in  breadth.  In  the  rear  of  these  apartments, 
and  opening  to  the  north,  were  two  alcoves,  each  flanked  by  fluted 
pilasters,  on  which  rested  an  arch  set  off  with  mouldings  and  carved 
ornaments.  Each  recess  had  a  deep,  cushioned  window-seat,  where 
the  ladies  of  the  household  could  sit  with  their  needlework ;  or,  it 
may  be,  enjoy  a  delicious  tete-a-tete  with  their  beaux  when,  in 
winter,  the  windows  were  closed  against  the  north-west  winds.  The 
cornice  formed  an  appropriate  finish  to  this  really  elegant  salon. 

On  the  right  of  the  door  as  I  entered,  there  was  a  sideboard, 
which  old-time  hospitality  required  should  be  always  garnished  with 
decanters  of  old  wines,  or  better  still,  a  huge  bowl  of  punch.  The 
host  first  filled  himself  a  glass  with  the  silver  ladle,  bowed  low, 
and  with  a  flourish  of  his  arm  drank  to  the  health  of  his  guest, 
who  was  then  expected  to  pay  the  same  compliment  to  his  host, 
with  interest.  If  a  trifle  ceremonious,  it  is  no  doubt  true  that  the 
old  manners  brought  men  much  closer  to  each  other  than  do  those 
of  to-day.  Gentlemen  then  sat  long  over  their  wine.  Light  or 
frivolous  conversation  was  interdicted.  We  hear  little  of  that  level 
ling  familiarity  that  now  prevails  among  the  men  about  town.  The 
day  of  small  talk  had  not  come  in.  The  warmth  of  hospitality  was 
not  all  absorbed  by  the  clubs.  There  was  such  a  thing  as  a  real 
home  life.  There  was  conviviality  without  excess.  When  the  wine 
came  in  the  ladies  retired.  In  those  days  a  man  drank  his  pint  of 


HOBGOBLIN  HALL  43 

Antigua  or  Madeira  with  no  dread  of  any  enemy  but  the  gout,  nor 
feared  to  present  himself  before  ladies  afterward,  regardless  of  the 
tell-tale  aroma  he  carried  with  him.  What  would  you  have  ?  It  was 
a  custom.  It  is  true  that  all  men  drank,  yet  there  were  few  drunk 
ards.  They  drunkards  ?  Why,  we  are  never  tired  of  extolling  them 
as  the  pattern  of  all  virtues !  We  live  in  sadly  weak-headed,  de 
generate  times  those  old  fellows  would  say,  if  not  better  advised 
touching  the  size  of  our  national  whiskey  and  beer  bills. 

The  second  floor  was  furnished  with  four  chambers,  all  opening 
on  one  spacious  and  airy  hall.  Of  these,  the  north-west  room  only 
demands  special  description,  because  it  was  the  best.  It  had  alcoves 
similar  to  those  already  mentioned  in  the  apartment  below  ;  only,  in 
stead  of  panelling,  the  walls  were  covered  over  above  the  wainscot  with 
hangings  of  leather,  stamped  in  gorgeous  colors  of  red,  green,  and  bright 
gold,  with  flowers,  birds,  and  beasts  of  Chinese  creation.  On  this  side 
only  were  seen  the  original  windows,  with  their  heavy  frames  and  small 
panes.  Every  pane  shook  in  the  fierce  cannonade  of  March,  1775. 

As  wall-hangings  were  first  brought  into  England  from  the  East 
by  way  of  Holland,  in  the  reign  of  William  and  Mary,  we  imagine  that 
this  room  was  the  one  which  every  visitor  was  first  taken  to  see. 

After  inspecting  the  kitchen,  with  its  enormous  brick  oven,  still 
in  perfect  repair,  and  its  iron  chimney-back,  handsomely  embossed 
with  the  Royall  arms,  I  thought  of  the  name  which  stands  at  the 
head  of  this  article,  and  which  Longfellow  must  have  had  in  mind 
when  he  wrote,  though  not  of  this  house,  — 

"  A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 
Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay." 

I  therefore  inquired  of  the  good  lady  who  had  so  kindly  shown 
me  through  the  house,  if  she  had  ever  been  disturbed  by  strange 
visions  or  frightful  dreams.  Had  the  house  ever  been  haunted,  or 
the  scene  of  secret  crime  ?  She  looked  at  me  doubtfully,  but 
promptly  replied  in  decided  negative.  "  They  were  all  good  people, 


44  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

you  know,"  she  pleasantly  said,  "  who  dwelt  here  in  bygone  times." 
She  had  never  heard  it  called  Hobgoblin  Hall  before ;  she  was 
sure  she  did  not  know  why  it  had  been  called  so. 

Yet  I  believe  my  pleasant  guide  was  not  then  aware,  as  I 
believe  very  few  were,  that  her  house  had  once  given  shelter  to 
that  prince  of  egotists,  that  soldier,  "  full  of  strange  oaths,"  whom 
the  world,  ever  too  ready  to  condemn,  now  calls  the  traitor  Lee  — 
General  Charles  Lee ;  the  man  who  believed  himself  greater  than 
Washington,  and  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his  opinion  ;  the  man 
of  the  huge  nose,  satirical  mouth  and  speech,  restless  eyes,  quick- 
rlaming  passions,  and  slovenly  person ;  in  short,  that  bundle  of 
strange  inconsistencies,  that  enigma  of  the  Revolution,  —  Charles  Lee. 

Lee  came  with  Washington  to  the  camp  at  Cambridge.  He 
first  formed  one  of  the  family  of  the  commander-in-chief,  but  on 
being  placed  in  command  of  the  left  wing,  three  miles  off,  an  excuse 
was  found  for  his  departure  from  the  somewhat  stately  formality 
which  ruled  at  headquarters.  Doubtless  the  change  was  in  no  way 
disagreeable  to  a  man  like  Washington,  who  was  himself  the  pattern 
of  personal  neatness  and  personal  dignity,  and  equally  urgent  that 
those  near  him  should  be  so  too. 

Washington  was  evidently  a  disciple  of  Caesar  in  his  choice  of 
those  who  were  to  be  about  his  person.  He  loved  to  have  the  fat  and 
amiable  Knox  near  him.  He  may  have  thought,  too,  when  looking  at 
the  spare  and  cynical  Lee,  as  did  the  Roman  when  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat ; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights  : 
Yond'  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look  ; 
He  thinks  too  much  :  such  men  are  dangerous." 

In  his  rides  about  the  camp  Lee  discovered  the  Royall  mansion. 
With  his  Pomeranian  dog  at  his  heels  the  general  ran  over  the 
house,  found  it  to  his  liking,  and  decided  on  the  spot  to  make 
his  headquarters  there.  The  thought  probably  tickled  his  fancy 
that  he  would  thus  be  making  the  enemy  contribute  toward  defray- 


HOBGOBLIN  HALL  45 

ing   the   expenses  of  the  war.     Slaves  and  all  were  still  there.     The 
general  gave  his  orders,  and  without  delay  moved  in. 

Possibly  the  echoing  corridors  and  forsaken  apartments  may 
have  suggested  to  his  fertile  imagination  the  name  of  Hobgoblin 
Hall.  He  was  a  good  deal  of  a  dreamer  metaphysically,  as  well 
as  intellectually.  There  was  nothing  in  it,  however,  more  weird 
and  uncanny  than  himself.  His  bachelor  establishment  was  shunned 
by  ladies  visiting  the  camp,  notwithstanding  his  repeated  and  urgent 
invitations.  Mrs.  Adams,  for  instance,  wrote  to  her  husband  that 
she  had  met  General  Lee  while  calling  at  Major  Mifflin's  ;  that  Lee 
was  very  urgent  with  her  "  to  tarry  in  town,  and  dine  with  him 
and  the  ladies  present  at  Hobgoblin  Hall ;  but  I  excused  myself. 
The  general  was  determined,"  she  adds,  "  that  I  should  not  only 
be  acquainted  with  him,  but  with  his  companions  too,  and  there 
fore  placed  a  chair  before  me,  into  which  he  ordered  Mr.  Spada  to 
mount  and  present  his  paw  to  me  for  better  acquaintance."  Mr. 
Spada  was  the  Pomeranian  dog  before  referred  to. 

Lee's  native  eccentricity,  or  his  desire  to  gain  notoriety  with 
the  army,  appears  in  all  his  acts.  We  in  vain  try  to  figure  to 
ourselves  this  tall,  swarthy,  ungainly  looking  warrior  mounting  his 
horse  in  the  court-yard,  and  riding  off  with  a  pack  of  yelping  curs 
at  his  heels,  while  the  negroes  follow  him  with  wondering  eyes. 
What  manner  of  man  he  was  may  be  gathered  from  his  letters  to 
Burgoyne,  to  Putnam,  and  from  the  true  incident  of  his  galloping 
down  to  the  British  outposts  alone,  and,  after  attracting  the  sentinel's 
attention  by  his  Qfesticulations,  exclaiming  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Tell 

J  c>  o 

your  officers,   fellow,  that  General   Lee  is  here  !  " 

His  letter  to  Putnam  is  equally  characteristic.  Here  it  is  in 
all  its  integrity  :  — 

"HOBGOBLIN   HALL,  October  19,  1775. 

"DEAR  GENERAL, — The  bearer  of  this  is  a  Mr.  Page.  He  has  the  laudable 
ambition  of  seeing  the  great  General  Putnam.  I  therefore  desire  that  you  would 
array  yourself  in  all  your  majesty  and  terrors  for  his  reception.  Your  blue-and-gold 


46  OUR    COLO  XI A  I.    HOMES 

must  be   mounted,  your  pistols   stuck    in    your  girdle  ;  and  it  would  not  be  amiss  if 
you  should  black  one  half  your  face. 

"I  am,  dear  general,  with  fear  and  trembling,  your  humble  servant, 

"  CHARLES  LEE." 

Grown  uneasy  at  seeing  his  able,  but  careiess,  lieutenant  take 
up  his  quarters  so  far  from  his  troops  (he  was  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  centre  of  his  command),  Washington  one  day  wrote  Lee 
a  letter  on  the  subject  in  that  firm,  full,  round  hand  for  which  he 
was  remarkable.  Lee  read  the  letter,  packed  up  his  traps,  and 
removed  forthwith  to  the  Tufts  house.  His  notice  had  presumably 
been  called  to  the  old  military  maxim,  that  in  war  a  general  should 
sleep  among  his  soldiers.  This  incident  goes  to  show  that  habitual 
carelessness  in  Lee  which  later  on  led  to  his  capture  at  Basking- 
ridge,  an  event  sometimes,  though  erroneously,  we  think,  imputed 
to  treachery. 

After  Lee  had  gone  from  the  mansion,  General  John  Sullivan, 
allured  by  the  manifold  comforts  his  fancy  conjured  up,  but  wholly 
ignorant  of  why  his  superior  officer  had  so  unceremoniously  quitted 
it,  very  innocently  moved  in  also.  Before  he  had  time  to  get  well 
settled  in  his  new  quarters  an  aide-cle-camp  handed  him  a  letter 
from  his  excellency,  General  Washington.  In  his  turn,  Sullivan  left 
the  house  without  giving  his  brother  officers  any  reasons  for 
making  so  poor  an  exchange,  and  went  back  to  Winter  Hill  and 
its  wintry  blasts.  The  moving  despatch  may  be  liberally  interpreted, 
we  think,  to  have  read  as  follows :- 

"  Stand  not  upon   the   order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once." 

We  can  only  guess  how  inexplicable  these  sudden  comings  and 
goings  must  have  been  to  the  poor  negroes ;  we  can  only  admire 
the  firmness  of  the  general,  who,  by  remanding  his  generals  to  their 
proper  posts,  set  an  example  which  might  have  been  followed  with 
advantage  in  much  later  times. 


EDWARD   EVERETT'S   BIRTHPLACE  47 


EDWARD    EVERETT'S    BIRTHPLACE 

DORCHESTER,    MASS. 

WHOEVER  has  visited  an  old  New  England  town  —  and  Dorchester 
was  one  of  the  oldest  before  its  individuality  was  merged  with  that  of 
the  greater  Boston  —  must  have  been  agreeably  impressed  with  the 
stately  grandeur  of  the  trees  growing  by  the  roadsides.  In  them,  at 
least,  the  old  settlers  have  left  us  something  for  which  we  should  ever 
hold  them  in  grateful  remembrance  ;  and  as  there  were  no  village  im 
provement  societies  in  those  days  we  may  fairly  give  credit  to  those 
old  fellows,  whom  we  imagine  only  as  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water,  for  some  feeling  for  the  beautiful,  and,  better  still,  some  thought 
for  those  who  should  come  after  them.  One  is  everywhere  forcibly 
reminded  of  Tom  Hood's  beautiful  lines  :  - 

"  'Twas  in   a  shady  avenue 
Where  lofty  elms  abound, 

And  from  a  tree 

There  came  to  me 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound." 

Along  many  an  old  country  highway  do  these  statuesque  elms 
stretch  their  sheltering  branches  over  the  hot  and  dusty  traveller,  who 
loiters  in  their  coolness  and  shade,  and  is  gently  fanned  by  the  softly 
swaying  foliage  overhead.  Nowhere  were  these  grand  old  English 
elms  found  in  greater  vigor  and  profusion  than  in  Old  Dorchester. 
They  are  the  finest  among  their  species  ;  their  foliage  is  of  a  deeper 
green,  and  is  longer  retained  in  autumn,  than  that  of  our  American 
variety.  You  will  occasionally  meet  with  a  group  of  the  lofty,  broad- 
leaved  button-wood,  such  as  stand  about  the  house  in  which  Everett 


48  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

was  born,  but  not  often.  So  fantastic  is  the  way  in  which  the  limbs 
of  some  of  these  grow,  that  they  appear  not  unlike  huge  pythons 
writhing  about  in  agony ;  in  winter  their  ghastly  white  trunks  and 
twisted  branches  have  a  downright  weird  and  spectral  aspect.  He 
who  planted  these  sycamores  may  have  had  in  mind  how  much  they 
arc'  honored  in  the  East,  or  have  read  of  that  hollow,  cavernous  trunk 
in  which,  Pliny  tells  us,  a  Roman  consul,  with  eighteen  soldiers,  once 

took  refuse  from  a  storm. 
<•> 

Until  quite  recently,  comparatively  speaking,  Dorchester  was  a 
model  of  quiet,  old-fashioned  respectability.  Had  you  not  known,  you 
would  scarce  have  believed  the  city  to  be  only  three  miles  away.  An 
air  of  well-bred  gentility,  of  well-earned  repose,  sat  easily  upon  the  old 
town.  To  the  crowding  city  it  seemed  saying  severely,  "  Keep  your 
distance  !  "  The  estates  were  ample,  the  houses  roomy,  the  inhabit 
ants  hospitable. 

In  some  respects  Dorchester  more  resembled  an  English  country 
town  than  any  other  of  our  acquaintance.  As  Lowell  has  so  truly  said 
of  Old  Cambridge,  "  it  was  essentially  an  English  village,  quiet,  un- 
speculative,  without  enterprise,  sufficing  to  itself,  and  only  showing 
such  differences  from  the  original  type  as  the  public  school  and  the 
system  of  town  government  might  superinduce."  In  short,  it  was  just 
such  a  place  as  a  man  of  business  who  loved  country  life  best  would 
be  apt  to  choose  for  a  home.  In  comparison  with  Cambridge  it  was 
fortunately  free  from  that  "  cloistered  quiet  "  which  so  often  turned  the 
terrified  citizen  out  of  his  bed  under  the  impression  that  the  last  trump 
had  sounded  ;  or  that  overcharged  "  intellectual  atmosphere  "  so  often 
accompanied  by  midnight  explosions  and  the  crashing  of  window 
glass,  as  to  make  the  unlettered  think  they  were  sleeping  on  a  volcano. 

But  this  was  when  Dorchester  was  a  country  town.  You  saw  none 
of  those  prim  little  bandboxes  of  cottages,  packed  so  closely  together 
that  the  occupants  can  shake  hands  with  each  other  across  lots,  out  of 
the  windows.  The  surveyor  had  not  then  got  in  his  deadly  work. 
Brick  blocks  had  not  gone  up ;  or  whole  ranks  of  trees  come 


EDWARD   EVERETT'S  BIRTHPLACE  49 

down  in  his  destroying  path.  Long  rows  of  houses  had  not  begun  to 
imprison  the  streets  or  shut  out  the  green  fields  from  the  passer-by. 
In  a  word,  it  had  not  then  been  built  up. 

But  since  Dorchester  became  a  ward  of  Boston,  its  ancient  tra 
ditions  have  been  violently  uprooted.  The  transition  state  shows  a 
comical  jostling  of  urban  with  rural  life.  Perhaps  even  its  old  west-of- 
England  name  will  ere  long  pass  into  the  oblivion  that  enshrouds  its 
still  more  ancient  Indian  designation.  The  all-grasping  city  is  ever 
stretching  forth  fresh  arms,  polypus-like,  in  search  of  some  new 
spot  of  ground  upon  which  to  plant  its  unwieldy  and  unrestful  bulk. 
Wretched  Galileo  !  why  did  you  ever  declare  that  the  world  moved  ? 
To  some  wanderer,  just  returned  from  a  long  absence  abroad, 

"  New  streets  invade  the  country,   and  he  strays, 
Lost  in  strange  paths,  still  seeking,  and  in  vain, 
For  ancient  landmarks,  or  the  lonely  lane 
Where  oft  he  played  at   Crusoe  when  a  boy." 

The  point  where  the  old  road  coming  from  Roxbury  burying- 
ground  is  crossed  by  that  leading  from  Upham's  Corner  in  Dorchester, 
over  the  old  causeway  to  South  Boston,  is  locally  known  as  ''The 
Five  Corners,"  and  is  the  locality  of  our  sketch. 

Long  ago,  all  of  what  is  now  South  Boston  was  known  as  Dor 
chester  Neck,  and  was  used  in  common  by  the  inhabitants  of  this 
town.  The  "lowing  herds"  were  regularly  driven  onto  the  Neck 
every  morning,  and  wandered  about  at  discretion  over  the  hills  and 
marshes,  returning  at  nightfall,  as  all  good  cows  do,  to  the  gate  which 
closed  the  entrance.  What  Gray's  famous  "  Elegy  in  a  Country 
Churchyard  "  so  feelingly  recalls,  was  every  clay  witnessed  from  this 
spot.  This  primitive  condition  of  things  continued  from  the  clay  of 
steeple-crowned  hats,  buff-coats,  and  matchlocks,  clown  to  a  few 
generations  a«fo. 

o  o 

But  the  fatal  day  came  when  that  cow-pasture  was  to  play  a  much 
more  important  part  in  history.  Its  lofty  heights  became  of  strategic 


;o 


OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 


value  to  the  besiegers  of  Boston.  It  was  then  that  over  the  roads  just 
described  the  army  of  General  Thomas  silently  wended  its  way  on 
one  stinging  night  of  March,  1775,  to  seize  those  heights;  and  the 
startled  inmates  of  our  old  mansion  here  saw  filing  by  them  the 
shadowy  procession  of  four  thousand  men,  with  their  four  hundred 
carts  loaded  with  fascines,  chandeliers,  and  baled  hay,  and  heard  their 
dull  tramp,  tramp  echo  along  the  frozen  ground  all  the  livelong  night. 


m  ;  I 


BIRTHPLACE    OF    EDW'ARD    EVERETT. 


From  time  to  time  a  figure  that  sat  its  horse  like  a  statue  passed  up 
and  down  the  moving  column  in  silence  ;  but  the  soldiers  all  knew  that 
statuesque  form,  and  that  where  he  was  all  was  well. 

But,  as  Mr.  Dickens  used  to  remark,  in  his  inimitable  satire  upon 
writers  of  cheap  fiction,  "  Let  us  not  anticipate." 

The  house,  standing  as  we  see  it  in  the  angle  formed  by  two 
streets,  has  both  a  south  and  west  front,  with  entrances  in  each.  Its 
high  gambrel  roof,  topped  by  ornamental  balustrade,  aids  in  lifting  the 


EDWARD   EVERETT'S  BIRTHPLACE  51 

whole  structure  into  one  harmonious  effect  ;  still,  they  knew  in  colonial 
times,  as  well  as  we  now  do,  how  to  keep  up  appearances,  so  that  the 
mansion  has  little  depth  compared  with  its  height  and  frontage,  and, 
though  destitute  of  any  particular  feature  of  ornament,  there  is  some 
thing  decidedly  pleasing  about  its  appearance.  It  is,  moreover,  in 
excellent  preservation  - 

"A  brave  old  house!  a  garden  full  of  bees, 
Large  dropping  poppies,   and  queen  hollyhocks, 
With  butterflies  for  crowns — -tree  peonies, 
And  pinks  and  goldylocks." 

This  house  belongs  to  a  class  of  which  we  find  so  many  examples 
dating  back  to  between  about  1 740  and  1 760,  as  to  confirm  the  opinion 
that  such  houses  had  become  the  prevailing  fashion.  At  any  rate,  they 
announce  an  era  of  better  taste  ;  and  they  almost  invariably  signal  to 
us  the  residence  of  one  of  the  colonial  gentry,  in  whom  all  the  aristo 
cratic  traditions  of  his  English  prototype  were  most  loyally  cherished. 

Should  we  elect  to  enter  the  house,  we  must  first  raise  and  let  fall 
the  big  brazen  knocker,  which  almost  frights  the  quiet  neighborhood 
with  its  clangor.  You  next  enter  a  broad  hall,  which  opens  at  either 
hand  into  large  parlors,  and  these  in  turn  have  chambers  above,  with 

"  Fair  window-prospects  opening  wide 
O'er  history's  fields  on  every  side." 

Edward  Everett  was  born  in  the  east  chamber,  on  the  right  of  the 
picture.  Nathan  Hale,  so  distinguished  in  New  England  journalism, 
and  some  time  Everett's  instructor  at  Exeter  Academy,  was  married  in 
the  apartment  beneath. 

It  is  supposed  that  Colonel  Robert  Oliver  built  this  house  about 
1740,  shortly  after  his  removal  from  Antigua,  taking  with  him  a  son, 
Thomas,  who  became  the  last  Lieutenant-Governor  of  Massachusetts 
under  the  crown.  The  estate  then  comprised  forty  acres  of  pasture 
and  marsh.  Dorchester  might,  appropriately,  be  called  the  home  ot 


52  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

governors,  she  having  furnished  Stoughton,  Taller,  Belcher,  Hutch- 
inson,  Oliver,  Everett,  and  Gardner,  either  to  Colony  or  State. 

Colonel  Oliver,  a  descendant  of  the  Huguenot  Oliviers,  a  name 
renowned  in  French  chivalry,  was  engaged  in  trade  with  the  West  In 
dies,  and  is  reported  to  have  brought  the  first  negro  slaves  to  Dorches 
ter.  It  is  said  that  he  employed  them  at  first  in  removing  a  hillock  of 
earth,  each  laborer  carrying  his  load  in  a  wooden  tray  upon  his  head. 
The  colonel  being  advised  to  substitute  barrows  for  a  process  so  tedi 
ous,  furnished  his  slaves  with  them,  but  was  at  his  wits'  end  at  seeing 
the  negroes  returning,  each  with  a  well-filled  barrow  on  his  head  !  It 
is  not  many  years  since  the  writer  saw  negroes  at  work  coaling  a  huge 
Atlantic  steamship  in  a  West-Indian  port,  by  carrying  the  coal  on 
board  in  tubs  on  their  heads.  Cambridge,  Betty,  and  Mimbo,  three  of 
Colonel  Oliver's  slaves,  have  stones  erected  to  their  memory  in  the  old 
burial-place,  a  short  distance  from  the  mansion-house. 

The  son,  afterward  lieutenant-governor,  had  a  fortune,  much  ex 
ceeding  that  of  his  father,  left  him  by  a  grandfather  and  great-uncle, 
so  that  Oliver  pere  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  make  any  provision  for 
Oliver  fils  in  his  will,  beyond  the  usual  mourning-suit  and  ring.  The 
younger  Oliver  removed  to  Cambridge  before  the  Revolution,  where 
he  lived  in  great  state  in  the  elegant  seat  now  known  as  Elmwood  — 
the  late  residence  of  the  lamented  James  Russell  Lowell.  These  late 
Dorchester  Olivers,  by  the  by,  were  of  a  different  family  from  Andrew, 
the  stamp-master,  and  Peter,  the  Chief-Justice  of  Massachusetts. 

Thomas  Oliver,  a  clapper  little  man,  pleasant  of  speech  and 
courtly  of  manner,  was  in  no  public  office  previous  to  his  appoint 
ment  as  Hutchinson's  deputy — a  choice  which  occasioned  so  much 
surprise  that  it  was  currently  believed  the  name  of  Thomas  had  been 
inserted  by  accident  in  the  commission  instead  of  that  of  Peter. 
But  Hutchinson,  who  managed  the  affair,  knew  what  he  was  about. 

Popular  agitation  \vas  fast  leading  up  to  open  hostilities.  To 
hold  office  in  those  stormy  times  was  not  a  bed  of  roses,  as  Oliver 
soon  found  out  to  his  cost.  To  hold  high  one's  head,  drink  the 


EDWARD   EVERETT'S  BIRTHPLACE  53 

king's  health,  talk  flippantly  of  the  rabble,  and  boastfully  of  the 
might  of  Britain,  signalled  the  true  Tory  of  the  Revolution.  Oliver 
was  no  more  unpopular  than  the  rest,  or  any  better  judge  of  the 
signs  of  the  coming  political  tempest  then  about  to  sweep  him  and 
them  into  oblivion. 

One  fine  morning  in  September,  1774,  the  men  of  Middlesex 
appeared  in  the  lieutenant-governor's  grounds  at  Cambridge,  and 
wrung  from  him  a  resignation,  after  which  he  consulted  his  safety 
by  a  flight  into  Boston. 

Having  seen  Thomas  Oliver  thus  summarily  disposed  of,  we  are 
at  liberty  to  return  to  the  paternal  mansion.  In  1775  it  was  the 
residence  of  Colonel  William  Burch,  one  of  the  royal  commissioners 
of  customs.  This  position  was  no  sinecure,  considering  that  the 
revenue  must  be  collected  at  the  risk  of  being  knocked  on  the  head. 
Burch,  too,  fled  ;  and  the  vacant  house  was  then  taken  possession  of 
by  a  detachment  of  the  regiment  stationed  in  Dorchester  in  1775 
as  an  outpost.  By  this  time  the  roads  centring  here  had  made  the 
spot  of  strategic  value.  Marks  of  the  occupation  are  still  visible 
here,  as  they  are  also  in  the  old  Clapp  homestead  near  by,  where 
the  three-cornered  orifices  made  by  the  soldiers'  bayonets  in  the 
ceiling  tell  the  tale  to  this  day.  Burch  was  proscribed  and  banished 
in  1778,  and  included  in  the  Conspiracy  Act  of  1779. 

After  the  war  was  over  Oliver  Everett,  pastor  of  the  "  New 
South  Church,"  in  Boston,  from  1782  until  his  dismission  in  1792, 
took  up  his  abode  here  in  the  latter  year ;  and  two  years  later  the 
eyes  of  young  Edward  Everett  first  opened  upon  this  wicked  world  ; 
perhaps  the  very  objects  his  wondering  gaze  first  dwelt  upon  were 
the  blue  Dutch  tiles,  with  their  pictured  stories,  over  the  fireplace. 

In  1802  Everett's  father  died,  and  the  family  then  removed  into 
Boston.  We  shall  not  follow  him  to  his  several  places  of  residence, 
but  merely  recall  the  fact  that,  when  young  Edward  went  to  Ezekiel 
Webster's  school,  in  Short  Street,  Daniel  Webster  officiated  for  a 
short  time  as  teacher  there.  Everett  afterward  occupied  the  same 
house  in  Summer  Street  that  had  belonged  to  Mr.  Webster. 


54  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

There  is  nothing1  of  proud  humility,  but  much  to  command  our 
respect,  in  Everett's  own  manly  declaration  that  his  forefathers  "  were 
very  humble  men,  —  fanners  and  mechanics,  —  who  devoted  them 
selves  to  a  most  unambitious  career.  They  left  nothing  to  their 
descendants  of  either  fame  or  fortune,"  he  adds,  'l  but  a  good  name," 
and  that  we  know  is  better  than  riches. 

We  do  not  hesitate  to  reproduce  here  Everett's  charming  picture 
of  his  schoolboy  days,  when  first  he  went  with 

"  Shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school." 

"  When  I  first  went  to  a  village  school,"  he  begins,  "  I  remember 
it  as  yesterday.  I  seem  still  to  hold  by  one  hand  for  protection 
(I  was  of  the  valiant  age  of  three  years)  to  an  elder  sister's  apron  ; 
with  the  other  I  grasped  my  primer,  a  volume  of  about  two  and  a 
half  inches  in  length,  which  formed  then  the  sum-total  of  my  library, 
and  which  had  lost  the  blue  paper  cover  from  one  corner  -  my 
first  misfortune  in  life.  I  say  it  was  the  practice  then,  as  we  were 
trudging  along  to  school,  to  draw  up  by  the  roadside  if  a  traveller, 
a  stranger,  or  a  person  in  years  passed  along,  and  "  make  our 
manners,"  as  it  was  called.  The  little  girls  courtesied,  the  boys  made 
a  bow.  It  was  not  clone  with  much  grace,  I  suppose ;  but  there 
was  a  civility  and  decency  about  it  which  did  the  children  good, 
and  produced  a  pleasing  impression  on  those  who  witnessed  it. 
The  age  of  schoolboy  chivalry  is  past,  never  to  return.  These 
manners  belong  to  a  forgotten  order  of  things  ;  they  are  too  precise 
and  rigorous  for  this  enlightened  age." 

Professor  Lowell,  a  somewhat  younger  man  than  Everett,  also 
alludes  in  one  of  his  essays  to  this  growing  tendency  on  the  part 
of  the  rising  generation  toward  complete  emancipation  from  the  re 
straints  of  old  customs,  though  in  a  more  playful  spirit.  Speaking 
of  antiquities,  lie  insists  that  we  have  "in  America  things  amazingly 
old,  as  our  boys,  for  example." 


EDWARD   EVERET2^S  BIRTHPLACE  55 

It  was  eminently  fitting  that  when  a  new  school-house  was  to 
be  erected  more  than  fifty  years  later,  near  the  spot  where  their 
townsman  was  born,  the  citizens  of  Dorchester  should  have  given  it 
the  name  of  Everett.  The  compliment  was  no  doubt  highly  appre 
ciated,  even  by  one  who  had  held  so  many  positions  of  the  highest 
honor  under  the  national  government.  Mr.  Everett  was  himself 
present  at  the  dedicatory  services.  He  detailed  with  his  accustomed 
felicity  of  expression,  and  with  a  feeling  his  new-awakened  memories 
so  freshly  brought  forth,  his  own  school-day  experiences.  The  great 
scholar  made  no  attempt  to  display  his  scholarship ;  the  matchless 
orator  forgot  his  well-rounded  periods.  He  went  back — he  went 
over  again  with  playful  pathos  or  delightful  humor  the  story  of 
his  own  efforts  to  get  an  education.  Among  other  things  he  told 
the  boys  there  present  that  much  of  the  success  he  had  achieved 
in  life  was  owing  to  his  having  learned  "  to  read  so  as  to  be  under 
stood,  to  write  a  legible  hand,  and  to  know  enough  arithmetic  to 
understand  when  two  and  two  make  four."  It  was  an  impressive 
example  of  American  citizenship,  —  the  best.  Everett's  reference  to 
writing  a  legible  hand  has  peculiar  point ;  for  he  wrote  not  only  a 
legible,  but  a  most  beautiful  hand,  showing  a  touch  of  refinement 
in  every  stroke  and  line.  No  haste,  no  slovenliness  there.  His 
letters  are  as  much  models  of  neatness  as  of  elegance  in  composition. 
Like  Mr.  Longfellow,  he  was  fastidious  to  a  degree  in  this  respect. 

Many  of  us  remember  Mr.  Everett.  In  his  youth  he  was  extremely 
handsome.  When  he  was  a  professor  at  Cambridge  he  was  of  slight 
build,  with  light  hair  and  smooth  face,  with  the  look  of  a  scholar  and  a 
gentleman  in  it.  Even  so  early  as  this  his  fame  as  a  public  speaker 
had  gone  farther  abroad  than  that  of  any  other  man  in  New  England, 
except  Mr.  Webster.  He  came  to  have  a  wider  audience  than  any 
other.  Two  acts  will  always  especially  endear  him  to  Americans  ; 
namely,  his  earnest  efforts  in  behalf  of  the  Bunker  Hill  and  Mount 
Vernon  Associations.  The  completion  of  the  monument,  and  the 
rescue  of  the  tomb  of  Washington,  are  in  no  small  degree  due  to  him. 


56  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

His  oration  on  Washington  and  his  4l  Mount  Vernon  Papers  "  reached 
the  hearts  and  firesides  of  an  immense  audience  ;  they  brought  him 
nearer  to  the  people  than  any  other  American  orator  of  our  time  —  we 
might  even  say  of  any  time.  The  address  on  Washington  was  first 
delivered  before  the  Boston  Mercantile  Library  Association  on  the  22d 
of  February,  1856,  in  Music  Hall. 

While  in  the  vicinity,  the  visitor  is  not  only  advised,  he  is  urged,  to 
turn  back  toward  Upham's  Corner,  and  take  a  stroll  through  the  old 
bury  ing-ground  there,  where  some  of  the  most  curious  epitaphs  in 
New  England  may  be  read. 


THE  MI  NO  7'  HOMESTEAD  57 


THE    MI  NOT    HOMESTEAD 

DORCHESTER,    MASS. 

IT  has  been  truly  said  that  the  history  of  the  American  Indians, 
like  that  of  the  Carthaginians,  has  been  written  by  their  enemies.  I 
know  of  no  task  that  may,  even  now,  more  profitably  employ  an  impar 
tial  pen  than  the  annals  of  this  doomed  race.  Our  ancestors,  who 
saw  in  the  Indian  only  a  friend  to  be  feared,  or  an  enemy  to  be 
destroyed,  have  laid  on  the  canvas  none  but  the  darkest  colors.  His 
savage  mode  of  warfare,  his  cruelties,  in  short  all  the  more  repulsive 
phases  of  his  character,  have  been  largely  dwelt  upon  ;  his  virtues,  his 
heroism,  and  his  wrongs  have  received  but  scant  acknowledgment  at 
the  hands  of  our  early  historians.  We  have,  in  a  measure,  changed 
places  with  the  Indian  ;  and  he  now  occupies  a  position,  in  respect 
to  numbers  and  power,  much  like  that  of  the  first  English  settlers  on 
the  shores  of  New  England.  We  have  grown  great,  and  waxed 
strong ;  he,  weak  and  despised.  Like  them,  he  is  to-day  struggling  for 
a  bare  existence,  though,  unlike  them,  his  final  disappearance  has  be 
come  only  a  question  of  time,  perhaps  susceptible  even  of  close  calcu 
lation,  since  there  is  so  large  and  influential  a  section  holding  that 
"  the  only  good  Indian  is  a  dead  Indian."  With  that  section  the  only 
solution  of  the  Indian  problem  is  extermination.  What  a  commentary 
is  this  upon  our  boasted  civilization  !  And  how  complacently  have  we 
looked  on  while  it  was  being  carried  into  effect  !  Little  did  the  Indian 
dream,  when,  with  outstretched  hand,  he  uttered  his  famous  salutation, 
"  Welcome,  Englishmen  !  "  that  he  was  pronouncing  his  own  sentence 
of  death. 

These  thoughts  came  into  my  mind  while  standing  before  the 
Minot  House,  built  either  by  express  agreement  or  sufferance,  it 


58  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

matters  little  which,  on  land  belonging  to  the  neighboring  tribe.  It 
carried  me  straight  back  to  the  day  when  our  fathers  were  beggars  for 
a  few  poor  acres  of  land  ;  when  all  Plymouth  was  afraid  of  one  solitary, 
naked  Indian,  armed  only  with  bow  and  arrows  ;  when,  in  short,  the 
Indian  was  something  more  than  a  symbol  for  our  coat-of-arms. 

This  house  was  standing  in  that  part  of  ancient  Dorchester  called 
Neponset,  from  the  river  running  down  through  it  into  the  sea. 
Within  a  month  after  I  had  made  a  sketch  of  it,  the  house,  most 


THE    MINOT    HOMESTEAD,    DORCHESTER,    MASS. 

unfortunately,    took    fire,    and    was    nearly    destroyed.       Our    picture 
presents  it  in  all  its  antique  simplicity. 

The  loss  of  this  house  was  to  be  regretted  for  more  reasons 
than  one  ;  it  was  a  most  characteristic  specimen  of  the  very  earliest 
houses,  of  which  too  few  are  now  remaining  —  a  type  of  its  class, 
plain  to  homeliness  if  you  will,  but  the  outgrowth  of  a  plain  people, 
whose  wants  were  few,  and  whose  means  were  limited.  It  was 
easily  and  cheaply  constructed.  As  soon  as  the  massive  frame 


THE   Ml  NOT  HOMESTEAD  59 

could  be  hewed  out  of  the  native  forest,  all  the  neighbors  lent  a 
hand  in  raising  it.  Even  the  minister  was  there  to  assist ;  for  the 
ministers  of  those  days  did  not  think  it  beneath  them  to  minister 
to  the  physical  wants  of  their  people.  In  a  few  clays  the  house 
would  be  roughly  boarded  in  ;  in  a  week  or  two  one  or  two  rooms 
would  be  got  ready  for  occupancy ;  and  from  that  time  on  to  its 
completion  the  work  would  progress,  according  as  time  or  means 
permitted,  after  the  family  had  moved  in. 

The  loss  of  such  houses,  important  aids  as  they  are  to  getting 
at  the  true  home-life  and  thought  of  our  ancestors,  is  all  the  more 
to  be  regretted  because  we  are  now  so  often  reminded,  as  if  it 
was  a  matter  for  general  congratulation,  that  the  old  Puritan  is  now 
quite  extinct ;  that  we  ought  to  be  thankful  his  day  and  generation 
is  past,  never  to  return  ;  that  the  American  of  the  future  is  not  to 
bear  his  stamp,  or,  in  fact,  any  individual  stamp  at  all,  but  is  to  be 
a  nameless  composite  of  all  the  odds  and  ends  of  creation,  thrown  at 
hazard  into  the  national  caldron, 

"  Black  spirits  and  white, 
Red  spirits  and  gray : 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle, 
You  that  mingle  may." 

Yet  it  was  in  dwellings  of  this  sort  that  the  true  New  England 
character  —  that  by  which  it  became  known  and  honored  throughout 
the  world — was  formed  and  crystallized.  The  men  of  mark,  like 
the  Adamses,  Otises,  Everetts,  Aspinwalls,  or  Minots,  were  not  reared 
in  the  lap  of  luxury.  There  has  been  an  evolution  from  generation  to 
generation  ;  but  the  forefathers  as  well  knew  what  honest  toil  meant, 
as  how  to  build  up  a  state,  and  went  from  the  plough  to  the  General 
Court,  and  from  the  General  Court  back  to  the  plough,  without 
scruple  or  comment,  like  honest  men.  They  did  not  need  to  be 
told,  either,  that  public  office  is  a  public  trust.  We  shall  therefore 
call  this  the  typical  New  England  home. 


60  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

The  artist  has  faithfully  reproduced  the  venerable  building  which 
enjoyed  the  peculiar  distinction  of  being1  brought  within  the  munici 
pality  of  Boston,  though  originally  a  country  house,  by  the  annexation 
of  Dorchester,  itself  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  the  Commonwealth, 
its  settlement  having  preceded  even  that  of  Boston  by  a  few  days. 
The  Indian  name  of  Dorchester  was  Mattapan.  Over  all  this  region, 
and  before  the  descent  of  the  pale-faces  on  his  coasts,  the  Sachem 
Chicataubut  held  sway,  until  gathered  to  his  fathers  a  few  years 
after  the  settlement  here.  In  full  view  are  the  Milton  Hills,  which 
are  said  to  have  originated  the  name  of  Massachusetts  -  -  literally 
the  place  of  mountains.  Across  the  Neponset  we  enter  territory 
almost  every  rod  of  which  recalls  some  event  interesting  or  memo 
rable,  —  the  scene  of  Morton's  lawless  frolics  and  Standish's  bloody 
exploits  ;  the  birthplace  of  the  patriots  Hancock,  Adams,  and  Quincy, 
whom  we  shall  presently  call  upon  in  the  spirit  of  true  pilgrims, 
not  because  the  past  is  the  past,  but  because  we  shall  find  in  it 
so  many  useful  lessons,  so  much  that  is  hopeful  and  inspiring  for 
the  future. 

This  house  was  a  fairly  representative  structure  of  its  time  and 
place,  as  wholly  alien  to  modern  ideas  as  to  the  requirements  of 
our  domestic  economy.  Of  every  hundred  persons  whom  accident 
or  curiosity  brought  to  the  spot,  it  is  entirely  safe  to  say  that  ninety- 
nine  would  have  voted  it  an  old  barn,  and  would  have  wondered 
why  it  should  be  permitted  to  cumber  the  ground,  which  was 
worth  so  many  times  the  few  shillings  paid  for  it.  But  we  can  and 
do  see  in  it  one  of  those  weak  outposts  of  civilization,  uniting,  as 
it  were,  two  historic  eras  —  the  one  that  we  have  so  often  read  of 
and  so  deeply  pondered,  with  the  one  we  live  in.  Still,  the  house 
claimed  consideration  arising  from  its  more  than  two  centuries' 
possession  of  the  ground,  beginning  from  the  time  when  Boston 
and  New  York  were  sea-coast  villages,  and  long  before  Philadelphia 
was  thought  of.  The  illustration  will  dispense  with  further  descrip 
tion,  except  to  say  that  when  built  the  house  was  rather  superior 


THE   MI  NOT  HOMESTEAD  6 1 

to  the  average  farmhouses  of  the  time,  and,  like  most  of  the  early 
ones,  was  walled  up  inside,  between  joists,  with  bricks  laid  in  clay 
mortar,  to  keep  out  the  cold,  and  not  bullets,  as  some  of  our 
wiseacres  have  stated.  The  windows,  as  they  appear  in  our  picture, 
belong  to  a  much  later  period  than  that  of  the  first,  or  even  the 
second,  generation  of  occupants.  There  was  a  small  front  entry, 
a  kitchen,  which  in  those  clays  was  the  real  living-room  for  the 
whole  family,  as  in  it  was  the  mammoth  fireplace,  in  which  a  blazing 
fire  roared  up  the  big- throated  chimney  of  cold  winter  nights. 
Three  or  four  wooden-seated  chairs,  a  settle,  a  dresser,  and  possibly 
a  cradle,  constituted  all  the  furnishings  for  an  ordinary  family. 
Many  a  poor  boy  who  in  after-life  has  risen  to  eminence,  has 
studied  his  first  books,  or  read  his  first  romance,  by  the  firelight, 
because  household  economy  required  candles  to  be  put  out  after 
bedtime,  and  bedtime  varied  from  the  time  the  chickens  went  to 
roost,  for  the  little  ones,  to  nine  o'clock  for  the  older  members  of 
the  family. 

In  building  outside  the  larger  towns,  the  idea  of  defence  was 
always  more  or  less  prominent,  and  most  houses  were  therefore 
strongly  built.  Convenience  of  fetching  water  came  into  this  general 
idea.  A  glance  at  the  engraving  shows  the  well,  shaded  by  a  decay 
ing  apple-tree,  within  a  few  feet  of  the  front  door.  If  this  house  was 
built  as  early  as  1640,  as  claimed  (and  to  all  appearance  it  may  have 
been),  the  Indians  were  in  a  measure  unprovided  with  firearms  ;  their 
dependence  as  yet  being  chiefly  upon  their  primitive  weapons.  Still, 
as  they  would  give  all  they  possessed  for  a  gun,  and  traders  were  ava 
ricious,  enough  were  well  armed  to  give  the  settlers  much  uneasiness. 
So  clearly  was  this  arming  opposed  to  keeping  the  peace,  that  Eng 
lish,  French,  and  Dutch  alike  discountenanced,  under  severe  penalties, 
the  selling  of  guns  and  ammunition  to  the  redmen,  until,  becoming 
embroiled  among  themselves,  one  and  all  employed  the  savages  in 
their  own  behalf,  and  put  in  their  hands  the  arms  of  European  warfare. 
In  the  first  Indian  war  with  the  Pequots,  the  English  considered  a 


62  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

buff-coat,  such  as  was  then  worn  by  the  troopers  and  foot-soldiers,  as 
arrow-proof;  yet  even  these  were  often  pierced,  while  the  vengeful 
shafts  rattled  against  the  steel  cap  and  corselets  as  viciously  as  did 
the  English  cloth-yard  shafts  at  Hastings  or  Agincourt. 

As  is  well  known,  the  war  with  the  Pequots  occurred  in  1637, 
while  young  Harry  Vane  was  Governor  of  Massachusetts  Bay,  when 
the  power  of  this,  the  most  dreaded  of  all  the  New  England  nations, 
was  virtually  destroyed.  As  there  was  no  other  outbreak  of  conse 
quence  until  Philip's  War,  in  1675— '76,  little  occasion  existed  for  the 
erection  of  garrison-houses  —  I  mean  such  as  were  afterward  expressly 
constructed  with  the  view  of  defence  —  until  after  this  war,  nor  have  I 
met  with  any  among  the  few  remaining  in  New  England  that  can  be 
satisfactorily  traced  back  of  this  time.  The  garrison-houses  proper,  so 
far  as  I  am  able  to  judge  from  their  own  architecture,  and  the  exi 
gencies  which  called  them  into  being,  belong  to  the  period  of  the 
French  and  Indian  War,  arising  from  the  counter-revolution  in  Eng 
land  and  accession  of  William  III. 

During  Philip's  War  the  houses  called  garrisons  were  no  more  than 
ordinary  dwellings,  designated  by  the  colonial  magistrates  as  such, 
on  account  of  situation  or  capability  for  defence.  They  were,  in  fact, 
rallying-points,  so  situated  as  to  cover  most  of  the  settlement,  or 
its  approaches.  In  this,  as  in  their  construction,  they  embodied  the 
rudest  principles  of  military  art  —  and  the  best.  But  for  the  gallant 
defence  of  the  Chew  House,  Washington  would  have  won  the  battle 
of  Germantown.  If  the  farmhouse  of  Hdugoumont  had  not  cost  Na 
poleon  so  much  time  and  loss  of  life  before  it  was  carried,  he  doubt 
less  would  have  had  "  those  English  "  where  he  wanted  them,  as  he  so 
confidently  said  on  that  memorable  morning.  People  who  have  won 
dered  what  garrison-houses  really  were  will  readily  see  how  any  strong, 
well-built  dwelling-house  could  easily  resist  Indians  a  long  time.  All 
the  frontier  settlements  had  these  garrisons,  known  by  the  name  of 
their  regular  inhabitant,  receiving  in  time  of  danger  a  quota  of  soldiers, 
and  affording  a  refuge  to  the  undefended  ones  upon  an  alarm.  With 


THE   MINOT  HOMESTEAD.  63 

their  stout  frames,  and  walls  filled  in  with  brick  or  plaster,  they  could, 
and  often  did,  hold  out  against  overwhelming  odds.  At  a  later  day  the 
idea  of  a  better  defence  originated  a  class  of  block-houses,  constructed 
solely  with  a  view  to  putting  a  stumbling-block  in  an  enemy's  way. 
They  were  built  of  logs  or  hewn  timbers,  fitted  to  join  closely,  with  a 
projecting  upper  story  for  firing  upon,  or  scalding  with  boiling  water, 
those  who  might  attempt  to  force  an  entrance.  Yet,  as  the  overhang 
ing  upper  story  was  a  common  feature  of  English  architecture  of  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  it  is  not  necessarily  to  be  inferred 
that  all  houses  of  this  style  in  New  England  were  erected  for  defence 
alone. 

I  have  said  so  much  on  this  point,  because  I  used  often  to  hear 
the  Minot  House  spoken  of  as  the  old  Indian  fort.  Perhaps  of  even 
greater  interest  than  the  fact  that  events  dating  from  the  Restoration 
in  England  down  to  a  recent  time  have  been  discussed  in  it,  is  that  it 
commemorates  an  act  of  female  heroism  not  infrequent  in  the  day  of 
savage  warfare,  as  the  narratives  of  Mrs.  Rowlandson,  Hannah  Dtiston, 
and  others  go  to  prove.  The  story  furthermore  strikingly  illustrates 
the  perils  of  frontier  life. 

In  July,  1675,  tms  house  was  occupied  by  the  family  of  John  Minot. 
One  Sabbath,  while  all  but  the  maid-servant  and  two  young  children 
were  gone  to  meeting,  a  prowling  Indian,  who  clearly  had  been  on  the 
watch  for  this  very  opportunity,  came  to  the  door,  and  attempted  to 
enter  the  house.  Finding  the  door  fastened,  he  tried  to  gain  an  en 
trance  by  the  window.  That,  too,  was  secured  against  him.  The 
young  woman  had  watched  the  Indian's  motions  in  great  alarm.  She 
was  all  alone  with  two  helpless  children,  but  she  was  none  of  your 
fainting  or  crying  sort.  With  rare  presence  of  mind  she  first  hid  the 
little  ones  under  two  large  brass  kettles,  and  then  snatched  clown  the 
ever-ready  musket  from  its  place  and  ran  up-stairs  with  it,  determined 
to  sell  her  life  as  dearly  as  possible.  The  gun  was  empty.  The  sav 
age,  seeing  her  in  the  act  of  loading,  levelled  his  own  gun  and  fired, 
but  missed  her.  Our  heroine  then  returned  the  shot,  wounding  the 


64  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

savage  in  the  shoulder,  though  not  so  badly  as  to  disable  him. 
Rendered  furious  by  the  pain  of  his  wound,  the  savage  redoubled 
his  efforts  to  break  in  through  the  window.  The  courageous  maid  ran 
back  down-stairs,  caught  up  a  shovelful  of  hot  coals,  and  thrust  it  into 
the  fellow's  face.  This  decided  the  contest  in  her  favor.  The  Indian 
fled  to  the  woods,  where  he  was  soon  after  found  stone  dead,  five  miles 
from  the  house,  his  face  horribly  scorched  and  scarred  by  the  burning 
embers.  This  was  probably  a  stray  warrior  of  Philip's  partisans,  and 
was  the  nearest  any  hostile  Indian  approached  the  New  England 
capital  during  the  war.  I  need  not  say  with  what  pleasure  I  should 
record  the  name  of  the  damsel  whose  courage  equalled  her  presence  of 
mind,  but  unfortunately  1  have  not  been  able  to  meet  with  it.  The 
colonial  government  did,  however,  present  her  w^ith  a  silver  bracelet 
having  this  inscription,  "  She  slew  the  Narragansett  hunter." 

The  family  of  Minot  in  America  probably  originated  with  George, 
the  first  settler  of  the  name  in  Dorchester.  Of  this  name,  George 
Richards  Minot,  the  author  of  the  "  History  of  Massachusetts,"  and  of 
"  Shays'  Rebellion,1'  is  known  to  all  students  of  American  history,  and 
his  name  is  especially  honored  by  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society 
as  one  of  its  founders.  It  is  said  that,  in  the  old  burying-ground  of 
Dorchester,  there  was  once  a  stone  with  this  inscription  :  — 

"  Here  lie  the  bodies  of  Unite   Humphrey  and  Shining  Minot : 
Such  names  as  these  they  never  die  not." 

The  family  cradle  of  the  Minots  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Joseph 
Grafton  Minot,  of  Boston.  A  still  more  curious  relic  is  preserved  in 
one  of  the  Dorchester  families  of  the  name  of  Pierce,  it  being  neither 
more  nor  less  than  some  ship-bread  brought  over  in  the  Mary  and 
John  in  1630. 


THE    QUINCY  MANSION  65 


THE   QUINCY   MANSION 

QUINCY,    MASS. 

IT  would  indeed  be  surprising  to  find  a  person  who  had  not  heard 
of  Quincy,  since  such  substantial  bits  of  the  town  have,  for  half  a 
century  or  so,  gone  to  the  making  of  so  many  other  towns,  from  one 
end  of  the  Union  to  the  other.  And  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a 
city  of  any  note  whatever  in  which  Quincy  had  not  thus  raised  a 
lasting  monument  to  itself.  It  was  only  a  few  years  after  the  Civil 
War  had  ceased  that  a  shaft  of  Quincy  granite  obtained  a  broader 
and  happier  significance,  when  on  Bunker  Hill  the  representatives  of 
several  Southern  States  grasped  the  proffered  hands  of  men  of  New 
England  in  sincere  amity,  and  solemnly  declared,  as  men  gathered 
about  an  altar,  that  the  blood  of  Bunker  Hill,  of  Eutaw,  and  of  York- 
town,  should  ever  after  mingle  under  one  flag  and  one  country. 
Through  just  such  spontaneous  outbursts  of  patriotism  more  has 
been  accomplished  in  a  single  clay,  I  might  almost  say  in  a  single 
hour,  toward  reconciling  two  proud  and  somewhat  jarring  sections, 
than  statesmanship,  with  all  its  wisdom,  could  have  clone  in 
years. 

After  this,  who  shall  clare  deny  that  history  is  a  power  ?  or  the 
memory  of  great  deeds  a  vital  impulse  in  man  ? 

Our  granite  may  be,  as  some  indeed  affirm,  typical  of  the  New 
England  character, — hard,  inflexible,  and  susceptible  to  polish  only  by 
the  hardest  kind  of  rubbing;  but  is  it  not  also  strong,  masterful,  and 
enduring  ?  Could  you  have  the  kernel  without  the  shell  ?  Yet  a 
solid  man  of  Boston  is  by  no  means  a  petrifaction.  Ask  Ireland, 


66  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Crete,  France,  or,  to  come  nearer  home,  Portland,  Chicago,  New 
Orleans,  Charleston,  if  his  is  a  heart  of  stone. 

But  granite  is  by  no  means  all  that  Ouincy  is  noted  for.  Besides 
its  granite,  which  the  reader  will,  perhaps,  wonder  could  ever  lead 
any  one  to  a  train  of  speculative  philosophy,  where  else  but  in 
Ouincy  can  you  find  the  homes  of  two  Presidents  of  the  United 
States?  Already  we  have  been  admitted  within  the  sacred  precincts 
of  more  than  one  historic  mansion,  have  held  mystical  converse 
with  their  departed  inhabitants,  and  have,  in  turning  away,  mused 
on  the  lessons  of  their  lives.  There  is  much  in  these  associations 
which,  if  we  are  not  quite  able  to  analyze,  we  yet  feel  the  full 
force  of.  Stupid  people  may  laugh,  if  they  please,  may  even  accuse 
us  of  a  sickly  sentimentality,  but  we  feel  that  the  cultivation  of  a 
sentiment  that  can  lead  us  to  honor  the  memory  of  the  great  and 
good  who  have  lived  before  us  needs  no  apology. 

In  that  part  of  Ouincy  locally  known  as  Atlantic,  we  will  now 
make  a  brief  halt,  since  here,  also,  stands  one  of  those  old  ancestral 
seats  that  make  for  us  safe  stepping-stones  of  history  across  the 
turbulent  flood  of  modern  innovations.  We  amazingly  like  to  get 
to  one  of  these  spots  which  record  the  fortunes  of  a  family  from 
the  time  the  first  tree  was  felled,  the  first  spadeful  of  earth 
turned,  in  unbroken  succession  down  to  the  present  time.  We 
feel  as  if  we  could  almost  shake  hands  with  the  first  emigrant  across 
the  fading  shores  of  time.  Such  a  spot  is  the  Quincy  mansion 
before  us. 

Close  down  by  the  sea,  where  you  can  scent  its  pungent  saltness 
and  inhale  its  invigorating  gales,  stands  the  mansion — less  antique, 
perhaps,  than  some  others  scattered  about  the  country,  but  still 
a  fairly  good  specimen  of  colonial  architecture  rather  more  than  a 
hundred  years  ago.  It  is  placed  on  a  gentle  swell  of  ground  at  the 
extremity  of  the  noblest  private  estate  in  New  England.  Its  five 
hundred  broad  acres  of  meadow  and  woodland  give  the  idea  that 
you  have  suddenly  been  dropped  into  an  English  park  come  down 


THE   QUINCY  MANSION 


67 


from  generation  to  generation  by  the  law  of  entail.  There  is  a 
broad  and  leafy  avenue,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long-,  leading  from  the 
highroad  up  to  the  mansion  ;  and  everywhere  about  you  are  most 
delightful  glimpses,  across  long  levels  of  salt  meadow,  of  the  sea, 
of  Boston  Harbor  and  its  islands,  of  its  lighthouses,  and  of  the 
countless  white  sails  continually  winging  their  way  hither  and 
hither,  like,  birds  of  passage  from  clime  to  clime. 


THE    QUJNCY    MANSION,    QUINCY,    MASS. 

A  site  so  near  the  sea-shore,  and  commanding  such  an  extensive 
ocean  prospect,  would  now  be  considered  most  available  for  a 
summer  residence ;  but  summer  and  winter  were  the  same  to  the 
dwellers  in  this  hospitable  mansion,  who  built  their  houses  to 
live  in  all  the  year  round,  who  were  often  snowbound  in  winter, 
and  who,  most  assuredly,  had  to  get  along  without  those  luxuries 
which  we  call  the  necessaries  of  life — such  as  the  daily  paper,  the 
early  train  to  the  city,  steam-heated  apartments,  electric  lights,  and 


68  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

other  inventions  of  this  pampered  age.  If  any  one  thinks  those 
old  fellows  did  not  live  long  and  well,  let  him  carefully  compare  the 
oldest  gravestones  in  the  cemetery  with  the  newest.  Out  of  re 
gard,  it  may  be  presumed,  for  our  growing  tenderness,  Providence, 
they  say,  has  even  made  our  winters  milder,  if  not  shorter,  than 
they  were  in  the  long  ago. 

Colonel  Josiah  Quincy  built  this  house  in  1770  on  ground  that 
had  been  granted  his  ancestor,  Edmund  Quincy,  as  early  as  1635. 
This  Edmund  was  the  first  of  his  name  in  New  England.  The 
house  is  supposed  to  have  replaced  an  earlier  one  that  was  set 
on  fire  in  the  winter  of  1769  by  the  overheating  of  an  oven,  and 
burned  to  the  ground.  This,  too,  was  spoken  of  as  a  fine  house 
for  its  day. 

When  first  I  happened  to  be  rambling  in  the  neighborhood  - 
alas!  that  it  should  be  so  long  ago  —  I  found  most  hospitable  wel 
come  at  the  old  mansion  from  the  daughters  of  the  late  Josiah 
Quincy,  President  of  Harvard  College,  who  then  made  it  their 
summer  home.  For  four  successive  generations  a  son  had  borne 
the  name  of  Josiah  ;  and  as  two  of  that  name  have  been  mayors  of 
Boston,  while  all  have  been  more  or  less  distinguished  in  political 
life,  the  patronymic  is  apt  to  become  a  little  perplexing.  There 
is  an  embarrassment  of  Josiahs.  Beyond  question  there  may  be, 
to  a  genealogist  at  least,  many  good  arguments  raised  against  the 
continued  use  of  the  same  Christian  name  by  a  family,  especially 
when  that  name  happens  to  be  borne  by  three  persons  of  as  many 
different  generations  all  of  whom  are  living. 

In  this  family,  history  repeated  itself  in  this  way :  there  were  two 
sets  of  Josiahs.  Back  in  the  Revolutionary  time  there  was  the  Colonel 
Josiah,  builder  of  this  house,  and  there  was  his  son,  Josiah  Jr.,  called  by 
way  of  distinction,  the  patriot.  No  farther  back  than  the  sixties  or 
seventies  the  same  anomalous  condition  of  things,  led  to  many  pleasant 
quips  at  the  expense  of  the  younger  Josiah  of  the  two,  who  was  also 
known  in  the  lifetime  of  his  father,  President  Quincy,  as  Josiah  Junior. 


THE    QUINCY  MANSION  69 

When  both  had  grown  to  be  old  men  it  was  not  always  easy  to 
tell  which  was  the  father,  and  which  the  son,  or  as  it  was  once 
poetically  put, 

"  I  crave  their  pardon,  but  must  ask,  for  one, 
How  shall  we  know  the  father  from  the  son  ?  " 

When  these  lines  were  read  by  the  toast-master,  at  a  certain  public 
celebration,  the  younger  Quincy  immediately  jumped  to  his  feet,  and 
in  the  midst  of  great  merriment  cried  out,  "  Gentlemen,  I  introduce 
to  you  my  son,  who  sits  on  the  right  of  the  chair  !  "  This  brought 
the  elder  Quincy  to  his  feet  to  reprove,  with  humorous  severity, 
the  disobedience  of  some  sons. 

Many  doubtless  remember,  as  I  clo,  these  two  hale,  dignified- 
looking  old  gentlemen  walking  arm  in  arm  down  State  street  together. 
They  made  a  couple  that  you  could  not  help  turning  round  to  look 
after. 

When  I  was  once  fairly  within  the  house,  which  was  furnished 
as  houses  were  furnished  a  century  ago  —  where  antique-dressed 
portraits  looked  down  from  the  walls,  and  where  oriental  couches  in 
cool  corridors  insidiously  invited  one  to  post-prandial  naps  —  1  felt 
as  if  modern  life  had  little  right  to  intrude  itself  into  such  a  place. 
Walking  through  these  spacious  apartments  in  the  regulation  frock- 
coat  and  trousers  seemed  a  good  deal  like  an  undress  rehearsal  on 
a  stage  set  for  /  Puritani  or  The  Huguenots.  You  think  that  every 
visitor  should  be  required  to  don  a  powdered  periwig,  laced  coat, 
and  silk  stockings,  in  order  that  the  prevailing  idea  may  not  be 
disturbed.  And  why  not  ?  We  do  it  at  the  demand  of  royalty ; 
why  not  at  the  call  of  patriotism  ? 

Very  much  of  the  fragrance  of  the  old  life  still  lingered  about 
those  wainscotted  apartments,  as  if  their  former  occupants  had  but 
just  stepped  out  on  some  little  errand,  and  might  be  expected  back 
again  the  very  next  moment. 

"You  may  break,  you  may  shatter,  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still." 


70  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

Now  and  then,  as  the  gentlest  of  summer  breezes  lightly  stirred 
the  draperies  at  the  windows,  the  rustling  of  silk  seemed  to  announce 
that  coming,  and  I  half  turned  round  to  see  who  might  be  stepping 
so  lightly  across  the  threshold.  Really,  a  half  hour's  visit,  where  all 
the  talk  was  of  the  past,  almost  sufficed  to  convert  the  imaginary 
into  the  real. 

I  have  called  these  old  mansions,  stepping  stones  of  history.  It 
will  be  seen  that  the  term  as  used  here  is  no  catch -word.  By  an 
easy  transition  we  shall  step  here  from  the  Ouincys  to  the  Adamses 
and  the  Hancocks.  Here,  surely,  was  a  family  triumvirate  of  no 
inconsiderable  power,  whether  social,  political,  or  financial  weight  be 
meant.  More  of  this  hereafter ;  but  a  brief  word  now  is  necessary 
to  explain  what  follows. 

The  Colonel  Ouincy  referred  to  had  a  cousin  John,  who  held 
many  public  offices  under  the  province,  and  for  whom  Ouincy  was 
named  when  the  old  town  of  Braintree  was  divided.  This  John 
lived  at  Mt.  Wollaston,  one  short  stage  farther  on  in  our  historical 
pilgrimage,  and  on  a  spot  to  which  we  have  already  drawn  attention. 
He  is  the  "  grandfather  Quincy "  of  the  following  extracts  from 
John  Adams'  diary  :  "  Drank  tea  at  Grandfather  Ouincy's,"  "  Spent 
the  evening  at  Colonel  Ouincy's  with  Colonel  Lincoln."  The  men 
talked  politics,  and  the  ladies  talked  about  the  fashions  by  the  last 
London  packet.  The  serpent  discord  soon,  however,  introduced 
itself  into  this  as  into  many  other  families,  through  the  disputes 
with  the  mother  country.  Once,  when  Mrs.  Adams  was  spending 
the  day  here,  "  there  came  Mr.  Samuel  Ouincy's  wife  and  Mr.  Sum- 
ner,  Mr.  Josiah  and  wife.  A  little  clashing  of  parties  you  may  be 
sure.  Mr.  Sam's  wife  said  she  thought  it  high  time  for  her  husband 
to  turn  about ;  he  had  not  done  half  so  cleverly  since  he  left  her 
advice."  The  brothers,  Samuel  and  Josiah,  took  opposite  sides  in 
the  contest. 

The  four  Quincys  who  bore  the  name  of  Josiah  should  not  be  con 
founded  the  one  with  the  other.  Colonel  Josiah  Ouincy,  who  built 


THE    QUINCY  MANSION  71 

this  house,  and  occupied  it  during-  Washington's  investment  of 
Boston,  is  easily  identified  by  his  military  title.  From  seeing  the 
British  fleet  daily  riding  at  anchor,  from  his  windows,  he  became  an 
enthusiastic  amateur  Fulton  or  Ericsson,  in  all  sorts  of  destructive 
inventions.  How  to  blow  that  fleet  sky-high  became  a  sort  of  mania 
with  him.  Every  few  days  he  would  ride  off  to  camp  with  some 
new-incubated  project  which  he  felt  sure  would  accomplish  the 
object  he  had  in  view. 

Not  finding,  possibly,  at  army  headquarters,  the  support  he 
desired,  the  Colonel  wrote  to  John  Adams,  who  was  then  attending 
the  Continental  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  showing  how  the  thing 
could  be  done.  Adams  replies  to  this  effect:  "I  have  a  great 
opinion  of  your  knowledge  and  judgment  from  long  experience, 
concerning  the  channels  and  islands  in  Boston  Harbor ;  but  I  con 
fess  your  opinion  that  the  harbor  might  be  blocked  up,  and  seamen 
and  soldiers  made  prisoners  at  discretion,  was  too  bold  and  enter 
prising  for  me,  who  am  not  very  apt  to  startle  at  a  daring  proposal  ; 
but  I  believe  I  may  safely  promise  you  powder  enough  in  a  little 
time  for  any  purpose  whatever." 

It  is  not  a  whit  unlikely  that  personal  considerations  may  have 
spurred  on  the  gallant  Colonel's  inventive  genius,  because  we  know 
that  the  fleet  was  continually  marauding  or  foraging  on  the  neigh 
boring  shores  or  islands,  thus  keeping  the  inhabitants,  who,  like 
Colonel  Quincy,  had  anything  to  lose,  in  perpetual  alarm.  In  one 
of  Mrs.  Adams'  letters  we  read  that  after  a  visit  of  condolence  she 
was  making  at  the  Colonel's,  most  of  the  family  returned  home 
with  her,  in  consequence  of  some  new  alarm,  to  find  a  refuge  more 
remote  from  danger.  Indeed,  the  mansion  was  such  a  prominent 
and  tempting  object  that  it  is  really  a  wonder  how  it  escaped  a 
visit. 

Colonel  Quincy  scratched  on  the  window-pane  with  a  diamond 
the  date  when  that  exasperating  fleet,  to  his  great  joy,  finally  stood 
out  of  the  bay  under  a  press  of  sail,  while  the  Continental  drums 


72  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

were  beating  "  Yankee  Doodle "  in  Boston  streets.  The  grim 
satisfaction  with  which  the  old  colonel  watched  the  enemy's  depart 
ing  ships  was  dashed  with  bitterness  :  for  one  son  was  on  board 
as  an  exiled  royalist,  and,  of  course,  his  father's  political  enemy. 

The  name  of  this  son,  however,  was  Samuel,  and  not  Josiah. 

But  Colonel  Ouincy  had  still  another  son,  the  Josiah  Ouincy 
Jr.,  of  that  period,  whose  memoirs,  first  written  by  his  son  Josiah, 
have  since  been  revised  by  his  granddaughter,  Eliza  Susan  Ouincy, 
in  a  manner  every  way  worthy  the  subject.  Josiah  Quincy  Jr.,  as 
he  is  still  called,  from  his  having  died  in  his  father's  lifetime,  had 
a  great  mind  imprisoned  in  a  feeble  body.  He  was  admitted  to 
the  bar  in  the  good  old  days  when  bar-meetings  were  held  in  the 
coffee-houses,  and  the  barristers  drank  punch  or  flip  while  question 
ing  a  candidate.  For  the  life  of  us  we  cannot  keep  a  sober  face 
when  we  recall  how  John  Adams  groaned  in  spirit  over  the  admission 
of  Ouincy  into  a  profession  he  thought  overcrowded.  What  would 
he  have  said  of  Webster's  famous  —  "There  is  room  enough  at 

o 

the  top"? 

Young  Ouincy  threw  himself  into  the  patriot  cause  with  all 
the  zeal  of  an  ardent  nature  that  self-interest  could  not  curb  or 
fear  suppress.  He  was  a  born  orator.  With  John  Adams  he 
defended  Captain  Preston,  who  was  tried  by  the  civil  authorities 
for  causing  what  was  so  long  called  the  Boston  Massacre,  against 
the  wishes  of  his  best  friends.  Even  •  his  own  honored  father 
upbraided  him  after  this  fashion  —  "Good  God!  is  it  possible?  I 
will  not  believe  it." 

It  required  no  small  amount  of  moral  courage  to  set  at  defiance 
not  only  public  opinion,  in  this  case  almost  unanimous  against  the 
prisoner,  but  also  that  of  one's  best  friends,  merely  to  further  the 
cause  of  pure  justice.  Preston's  acquittal  was  the  making  of 
Ouincy* s  reputation  as  a  lawyer. 

In  1774  Mr.  Ouincy  was  in  London,  whence  he  wrote  to  his 
friend  Joseph  Reed,  of  Philadelphia:  "My  heart  is  with  you,  and. 


THE    QUINCY  MANSION  73 

whenever  my  countrymen  command,  my  person  shall  be  also." 
But  Quincy's  fame  as  a  most  zealous  patriot  had  preceded  him. 
By  some  he  was  looked  upon  as  an  emissary  and  a  dangerous 
man.  They  were  not  far  wrong.  While  in  London,  Quincy,  with 
Franklin,  had  had  the  honor  of  being  publicly  mentioned  in  the 
House  of  Lords  by  Lord  Hillsborough,  who  said  that  there  were 
three  men  then  walking  the  streets  of  London  who  ought  to  be 
in  Newgate  or  Tyburn.  On  his  return  home  the  gifted  and  patriotic 
Quincy  died  in  sight  of  his  native  shores.  A  more  promising  life 
never  closed  more  prematurely  or  more  dramatically.  In  speaking 
of  him  John  Adams  said  he  was  the  greatest  orator  of  his  age  next 
to  Otis. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  to  write  the  biography  of  the  third  Josiah 
Quincy.  Wherever  you  may  go  in  Boston  you  are  sure  to  see  or 
hear  of  some  evidence  to  the  breadth  and  genius  of  his  enterprises, 
and  the  vigor  of  his  execution  of  them.  The  Quincy  Market- house 
and  the  long  ranges  of  granite  warehouses  standing  on  land  that 
he  reclaimed  from  the  filthy  basins  into  which  the  tide  had  flowed, 
the  mammoth  State-street  block,  are  among  his  monuments  ;  and 
he  deserves  unstinted  praise,  the  more,  for  having  met  and  overcome 
the  full  power  of  that  vis  inertia  for  which  the  Boston  of  his  day 
was  remarkable.  Mr.  Getting  and  Mr.  Quincy  prostrated  old-fogy- 
dom  in  its  stronghold  with  the  one  magical  word  "  Progress." 

Mr.  Quincy,  again,  was  a  representative  in  Congress  during  the 
exciting  sessions  of  the  War  of  1812.  He  was,  as  his  constituents 
expected  him  to  be,  a  strong  anti-war  man,  and  made  some  pretty 
incisive  speeches  against  Mr.  Madison's  war  policy.  A  man  of  his 
pronounced  character  and  outspoken  ways  very  soon  aroused  the 
hostility  of  the  so-called  fire-eaters  of  the  lower  chamber,  and  it  is 
said  he  once  narrowly  missed  having  a  duel  on  his  hands.  He  be 
came  the  subject  of  party  caricature,  and  was  even  openly  denounced 
as  a  British  partisan,  as  were  all  opponents  of  that  most  unpalatable 
contest. 


74  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

After  serving  as  the  second  Mayor  of  Boston,  Mr.  Ouincy  became, 
in  1829,  President  of  Harvard  University.  In  executive  ability,  and 
in  his  short,  sharp,  and  decisive  method  of  dealing  with  questions 
perplexing  or  difficult,  there  could  scarcely  be  a  greater  contrast 
than  between  Josiah  Ouincy  and  Edward  Everett,  his  successor.  If 
at  times  a  trifle  despotic,  the  former  certainly  gave  to  the  Uni 
versity  that  sound  business-like  administration  which  its  growing 
needs  more  and  more  demanded,  and  by  which  it  no  doubt  largely 
profited,  as  Mr.  Ouincy  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to  let  the  old 
cobwebs  stay  his  renovating  hand.  It  was  to  his  incumbency  of  the 
presidency  that  we  owe  the  very  full  history  of  the  University,  as 
the  successor  to  Peirce's  work,  published  in  1833.  President  Quincy's 
volumes  bear  the  stamp  of  his  individuality  throughout.  Gore  Hall, 
the  beautiful  depository  of  the  college  library,  was  also  his  work. 

The  fourth  Josiah  Ouincy  also  became  a  Mayor  of  Boston.  It 
was  during  his  term  of  office  that  the  Cochituate  water  took  the 
place  of  the  irregular  and  insufficient  supplies  obtained  from  the 
Jamaica  Pond  Aqueduct  or  the  old  town  wells.  It  was  a  great  day 
for  Boston,  and  a  proud  one  for  Mayor  Ouincy,  when  this  beneficent 
work  was  crowned  with  complete  success,  in  the  presence  of  a  vast 
multitude,  who  had  gathered  to  see  the  waters  of  a  lake  eighteen 
miles  away  made  the  willing  servant  of  every  householder  in  the 
metropolis.  Edmund,  another  son  of  President  Ouincy,  is  chiefly 
known  as  a  fearless  anti-slavery  writer,  though  he  is  also  the  author 
of  a  novel,  entitled  "Wensley,"  which  won  praise  from  so  good  a 
judge  of  fiction  as  the  poet  Whittier,  and  of  a  life  of  his  honored 
father.  As  one  of  the  most  earnest  Abolitionists  —  a  name,  by  the 
by,  not  now  nearly  so  hateful  to  ears  polite  as  it  once  was  — 
Mr.  Ouincy  frequently  filled  the  editorial  chair  of  The  Liberator  in 
Mr.  Garrison's  absence.  Miss  Eliza  S.  Quincy  is  also  an  author, 
having,  in  addition  to  the  work  of  revision  already  referred  to, 
assisted  her  father  in  the  preparation  of  his  valuable  "  History 
of  Harvard  University,"  besides  having,  in  1861,  got  out  for  private 


THE    QUINCY  MANSION  75 

distribution,  a  memoir  of  her  mother  —  at  once  an   affectionate  trib 
ute,  and  a  most  interesting  story  of  personal  reminiscence. 

This  necessarily  hasty  glance  at  the  leading  Ouincys  (modesty 
only  forbids  a  reference  to  the  younger  generation)  suggested  by 
strolling  over  their  ancestral  acres,  will  do  all  it  pretends  to,  in 
unearthing  to  this  generation  one  of  the  foundation-stones  of  that 
social  structure  represented  by  what  we  love  to  call  our  old  families. 
Its  history  begins  at  the  beginning,  and  is  perhaps  not  yet  ended. 
Any  one  may  clearly  see  how  widespread  the  influence  of  such  a 
family  becomes  through  intermarriage,  in  six  or  seven  generations. 
The  record  of  sustained  intellectual  effort  throughout  all  these  years 
is  truly  a  remarkable  instance  of  heredity.  We  also  have  in  this 
old  mansion  not  only  a  point  of  departure  but  a  point  d'appui  — 
a  breathing-place  on  which  to  lean  while  vainly  striving  to  solve 
that  unsolvable  question  of  "  What  is  the  future  American  to  be 
like  ? "  If  what  he  is  to  be  shall  prove  worthy  of  what  he  has 
been  we  think  the  Republic  need  have  no  fear  for  its  future. 


7  6  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


BIRTHPLACES   OF    THE    TWO   PRESIDENTS   ADAMS 

QUINCY,    MASS. 

WE  have  thus  far  opened  at  one  point  only  the  historical  vein 
which  divides  with  its  granite  Quincy's  claim  to  world-wide  celebrity. 
We  now  propose  to  follow  that  vein  wherever  it  may  lead  us.  Mean 
time,  the  way  we  take  leaves  us  full  liberty  to  indulge  our  rambling 
propensity. 

England  has  been  called  a  lump  of  chalk.  New  England  may 
be  likened  to  a  block  of  granite  but  thinly  covered  with  soil,  and 
cropping  out  here  and  there  in  masses  which  the  earlier  English 
explorers  described,  with  a  shudder,  as  "  daunting  terrible."  With 
Yankee  quickness  we  have  seized  upon  our  native  bed-rock  as  a 
type  of  the  indestructible.  We  have  our  Granite  State.  That 
tickles  our  vanity.  We  have  our  Granite  Bank.  That  smacks  of  a 
solidity  as  immovable  as  that  of  the  everlasting  hills.  Some  scien 
tists  are  fond  of  deducing  a  certain  connection  between  the  character 
of  a  people  and  the  structure  of  that  portion  of  the  earth's  crust  they 
inhabit.  Should  we  accept  this  dogma  as  true,  the  analogy  between 
the  average  Englishman  and  his  chalk,  and  the  average  Yankee  and 
his  granite,  would  be  curious  indeed. 

Geologically  considered,  no  more  interesting  pathway  could  be 
selected  than  the  one  lying  through  Roxbury  and  Dorchester.  For 
some  few  miles  nothing  is  seen  except  the  ever-recurring  substratum 
of  pudding-stone.  The  roadside  walls,  the  foundations  of  the  houses, 
and  even  many  of  the  public  and  private  •  buildings,  are  built  of 
this  curious  conglomerate,  so  aptly  named,  and  so  full  of  indigestible 
plums.  From  this  formation  we  quickly  pass  on  to  the  granite 


BIRTHPLACES    OF   THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS  77 

range,  first  called  Brain  tree -stone,  from  the  earlier  name  of  Quincy. 
Before  these  quarries  were  opened,  the  outcropping  stone  was 
more  or  less  used  in  building.  Its  color  was  a  rusty  brown,  instead 
of  the  fine  dark  gray  of  that  since  excavated.  King's  Chapel,  in 
Boston,  built  in  1754,  is  a  good  example  of  Braintree-stone  as 
first  employed,  as  well  as  of  the  stone-worker's  skill  as  it  then 
existed. 

When  we  reflect  that  the  ice  and  granite,  which  our  fathers 
found  so  forbidding,  have  proved  such  inexhaustible  sources  of 
wealth  to  us,  we  may  well  excuse  their  want  of  foresight,  for  no 
one  in  his  sober  senses  would  have  believed  there  was  any  value 
in  either.  Neal  and  Josselyn,  for  instance,  could  hardly  have  fore 
seen  that  the  one  would  be  exported  to  Calcutta  or  the  other  to 
San  Francisco,  or  that,  in  quick  obedience  to  the  law  of  demand 
and  supply,  the  first  railway  (supposing  they  had  ever  dreamed  of 
such  a  thing)  would  be  built  in  New  England  for  no  other  purpose 
than  the  removal  of  manufactured  granite  from  the  quarries  to 
tide-water.  It  is  the  boast  of  England  that  her  national  airs  may  be 
heard  in  every  quarter  of  the  known  globe.  So  be  it.  Thanks  to 
his  ice,  the  American  may  have  his  national  drinks  in  every  quarter 
of  the  globe  —  his  "cocktail"  in  Shanghai,  his  "julep"  at  Grand 
Cairo,  and  his  "cobbler"  in  Melbourne,  all  cooled  with  American  ice. 
We  leave  it  to  the  decision  of  the  reader  which  is  the  more  exhilarat 
ing  to  national  pride  or  more  stimulating  to  national  vanity. 

Nearly  the  whole  southwestern  section  of  Quincy  is  one  solid 
mass  of  granite,  rising  hundreds  of  feet  above  the  sea-level.  As 
we  have  just  said,  the  first  railway  in  New  England  was  here  put  in 
operation,  in  1826,  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  the  granite  destined 
for  building  Bunker  Hill  Monument  from  the  quarries  to  tide-water, 
on  Neponset  River.  The  rails  were  of  wood,  plated  with  iron,  and 
laid  on  blocks  of  stone,  the  gauge  being  six  feet.  The  carriages 
weighed  about  six  tons  each,  and  when  loaded  with  twenty  tons  of 
stone,  were  easily  drawn  by  one  horse.  Before  the  great  fire  of 


7 8  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

1872,  the  business  part  of  Boston  was  so  largely  built  of  Ouincy 
oranite  as  to  ^ive  it  a  certain  character  of  its  own.  Yet  it  must 

o  o 

be  confessed,  in  spite  of  a  very  natural  predilection  for  home 
products,  that  the  long  ranges  of  granite  buildings  had  a  gloomy 
and  unpleasing  effect  as  contrasted  with  the  greater  variety  of 
materials,  to  say  nothing  of  the  greatly  improved  architectural  taste, 
as  exhibited  in  the  rebuilding. 

Since  we  were  speaking  of  railroads  only  a  moment  ago,  it 
may  not  be  out  of  place  to  state  a  fact  going  to  show  how  this  every 
day-affair  of  our  own  times  was  regarded  when  first  presented  to 
the  ignorant  but  struggling  mind.  There  is,  I  am  informed  by 
one  who  has  seen  it  set  down  in  black  and  white  on  the  Ouincy 
records,  the  protest  of  a  much  worked-up  citizen  against  allowing 
the  Old  Colony  railroad  to  pass  through  the  town,  on  the  ground 
that  the  noise  would  prevent  his  hens  from  laying. 

In  our  way  to  the  central  part  of  Ouincy  we  shall  pass  by  the 
beautiful  and  commanding  eminence  known  as  Mount  Wollaston, 
to  which  reference  was  made  in  the  previous  chapter,  as  being  the 
paternal  estate  and  lifelong  abode  of  Hon.  John  Ouincy,  in  the 
good  old  colony  times.  It  afterwards  became  the  property  of  his 
great-grandson,  John  Ouincy  Adams.  As  this  Mount  Wollaston  is 
the  chosen  emblem  for  the  city  seal  we  cannot  do  better  than  relate 
why  it  was  put  there. 

Quincy,  let  us  first  mention,  is  remarkable  as  the  scene  of  the 
first  attempt  to  set  up  a  Commune  in  America.  It  even  goes  back 
of  Brook  Farm  and  that  community.  It  was  really  of  by  no  means 
so  dangerous  a  character  as  the  Paris  Commune,  which  arose  on 
the  ruins  of  the  Second  Empire.  Yet  it  nevertheless  caused  the 
friends  of  law,  order,  and  good  morals,  great  uneasiness,  not  to  say 
alarm,  for  the  time  being,  and  eventually  had  to  be  broken  up  by 
force.  One  sees  that  there  really  is  no  new  thing  under  the  sun. 

In  1625  (we  recollect  that  this  was  five  years  before  Boston 
was  settled)  a  certain  Captain  Wollaston,  whose  connection  with 


BIRTHPLACES    OF  THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS  79 

this  episode  is  about  all  we  know  of  him  or  are  likely  to  know, 
began  a  colony  in  what  is  now  Quincy.  Why  in  Ouincy,  rather 
than  elsewhere  ?  I  think  the  true  answer  would  be  that  he  was 
drawn  here  by  a  mariner's  instinct  for  some  guiding  landmark,  con 
spicuous  enough  to  be  readily  recognized,  or  at  least  not  easily 
mistaken  for  any  other.  Behind  this  shore  there  rose  the  densely 
wooded  Blue  Hills,  a  most  commanding  landmark.  Other  reason 
there  was  none  ;  because,  all  along  here  the  waters  are  notably 
shallow  at  ebb-tide,  a  most  serious  drawback,  as  we  readily  discover. 
Having  secured  a  proper  landmark  for  those  entering  the  harbor, 
the  next  thing  was  to  pitch  their  own  habitation  where  no  ships 
could  approach  the  harbor  unseen — where,  in  short,  they  could  see 
as  well  as  be  seen.  "  I  must  put  these  people  where  they  can  be 
found,"  was  probably  Captain  Wollaston's  idea  ;  and  so  the  emi 
nence  or  mount  then  made  choice  of  has  ever  since  gone  by  his 
name  — -  Mount  Wollaston. 

In  Wollaston's  company  came  that  singular  individual  known  to 
our  prolific  orthography  as  a  "crank"  -Thomas  Morton,  "of  Clif 
ford's  Inn,  gent,"  who  had  before  been  among  the  Pilgrims  at 
Plymouth,  between  whom  and  himself  there  was  presently  to  grow 
up  such  a  violent  dislike.  Wollaston  soon  sailed  away  to  Virginia, 
with  perhaps  the  most  of  his  colonists,  many  of  whom  seem  to 
have  been  bond-servants  or  persons  who  sold  their  services  in 
consideration  of  the  money  advanced  for  their  passage  and  sub 
sistence,  as  he  would  the  sooner  get  his  money  back  there.  That 
one  simple  fact  is  pretty  decisive  in  determining  the  character  of 
this  colony,  if  not  the  key  to  what  subsequently  befell  it.  That 
such  men  would  rather  play  than  work  is  no  new  thing.  Both 
Morton  and  his  ignorant  followers  seem  to  have  preferred  a  life 
of  idleness  and  pleasure  to  one  of  such  industry  and  toil  as 
usually  fell  to  the  lot  of  new  colonists.  They  thought  it  far  easier 
to  let  the  Indians  work  and  hunt  for  them  than  to  do  either  them 
selves.  Free  and  jovial  companions  all,  they  seem  to  have  tried  to 


8o  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

get  along  without  either  law  or  gospel,  admitting  the  Indians  among 
them  at  all  times  with  an  almost  contemptuous  disregard  for  their 
own  safety.  Moreover,  Morton  seemed  to  take  particular  delight  in 
scandalizing  his  neighbors,  the  hard-working,  pious  Pilgrims.  Very 
many  of  his  acts  appear  to  have  been  conceived  as  much  in  a  spirit 
of  reckless  deviltry  as  of  studied  malice.  He  introduced  the  old 
Bacchanalian  rites,  so  abhorrent  to  the  Puritans  of  that  day.  With 
all  possible  parade  his  followers  cut  down  and  dragged  into  the 
settlement  a  tall  pine,  which  they  set  up  for  a  May-pole,  around 
which  they  danced,  feasted,  and  drank,  to  the  great  scandal  of  the 
Pilgrims,  who  considered  such  conduct  little  short  of  impious. 

So  far  as  the  community  of  Merry  Mount  —  as  Morton  named 
Mount  Wollaston  —  professed  any  religion  at  all,  they  appear  to 
have  followed  the  forms  of  the  English  Church.  They  finally  gave 
just  cause  of  offence  to  their  neighbors  by  selling  guns  to  the  In 
dians  ;  and  Morton  having  repelled  with  derision  the  remonstrances 
of  the  Plymouth  authorities,  it  was  determined  to  put  an  end  to  the 
colony.  So  the  redoubtable  Miles  Standish  was  despatched  with  a 
force  to  Merry  Mount,  where  he  seized  Morton  and  the  more  un 
ruly  spirits,  and  carried  them  prisoners  to  Plymouth.  The  law  of 
the  strongest,  an  inexorable  law  in  1628,  seems  to  have  been  exer 
cised  here  in  behalf  of  self-preservation. 

Mount  Wollaston  having  thus  been  the  very  first  place  within 
her  bounds  to  receive  any  Christian  settlers,  is  considered  Ouincy's 
original  foundation ;  and  though  the  name  is  now  confined  to  one 
particular  spot  only,  it  was  for  many  years  the  unique  designation 
for  all  the  region  round  about. 

From  Mount  Wollaston  to  the  railway  station  in  Ouincy  is  but 
a  short  distance.  Though  there  is  much  here  to  detain  us,  it  better 
accords  with  our  design  to  pass  on  through  the  business  centre, 
oblivious,  if  possible,  to  all  its  sights  and  sounds.  We  are  first 
going  farther,  because  there  we  shall  best  get  the  true  historical 
perspective.  A  short  mile  farther  on,  the  train,  after  passing  within 


BIRTHPLACES   OF  THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS 


8l 


a  few  rods  of  a  group  of  ancient-looking  dwellings,  makes  its  first 
stop  at  the  station  called  Quincy  Adams.  The  eminence  rising  just 
beyond  is  Penn's  Hill.  Of  the  near-at-hand  houses  two  are  espe 
cially  noted,  one  as  the  birthplace  of  John  Adams,  the  other  as 
that  of  his  scarcely  less  distinguished  son,  John  Quincy  Adams.  In 
one  of  those  not  unfrequent  moods  to  which  he  sometimes  gave  way 


HOME    OF    JOHN    ADAMS. 

when  care  weighed  too  heavily  upon  him,  the  elder  Adams  wrote 
down  impulsively:  "I  had  rather  build  wall  on  Penn's  Hill  than  be 
the  first  prince  of  Europe,  or  the  first  general  or  first  senator  of 
America."  And  his  accomplished  wife  speaks  always  to  the  heart 
of  every  truly  domestic  woman  when  she  says  :  "  My  humble  cot 
tage  at  the  foot  of  Penn's  Hill  has  more  charms  for  me  than  the 
drawing-room  at  St.  James's."  These  two  very  characteristic  utter 
ances,  surprising  as  they  seem  in  presence  of  the  things  actually 


82  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

wished  for,  furnish  the  keynote  to  our  investigations.  Where  indeed 
should  \ve  look  for  better  evidence  of  the  truth  of  that  saying  that 
no  house  is  so  humble  but  that  a  great  man  may  be  born  in  it  ? 
Humble,  forsooth!  Nothing,  we  insist,  could  so  shatter  the  super 
ficial  observer's  sentimental  expectations  as  this  unobtrusive  medi 
ocrity.  In  all  candor  we  are  at  first  more  than  half  tempted  to 
doubt  whether  the  elder  Adams  spoke  in  all  seriousness  about 
building  wall,  or  his  accomplished  wife  in  downright  sober  earnest 
about  going  back  to  her  lowly  cot.  Yet  that  is  precisely  the 
feeling  which  inspired  the  immortal  line, 

"  Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  Home." 

We  know  that  we  are  susceptible  to  it,   if  we  cannot  tell  why. 

As  it  was  this  very  old  house  which  undoubtedly  awakened  the 
tenderest  memories  of  these  two  lives,  let  us  also  go  back  to  the 
period  it  recalls.  Like  Joan  of  Arc's  banner,  it  had  been  with  them 
in  their  struggling  days,  it  should  not  be  forgotten  in  those  of  their 
greatest  honor.  The  honest  heart  knows  no  distinctions  of  fame 
or  fortune. 

Of  John  Adams'  parents  little  is  known.  His  father  was  a  small 
farmer  who  also  worked  at  shoemaking  —  a  quite  common  employ 
ment,  we  may  add,  t  not  only  in  his  day,  but  down  to  a  compara 
tively  recent  one  among  farmers,  during  the  long  New  England 
winters,  as  a  means  of  eking  out  a  slender  income.  He  was  also 
a  deacon  of  the  church,  so  that  we  have  vouchers  both  for  his 
industry  and  piety.  We  also  know  that  he  had  in  him  something 
of  the  grim  Puritan  humor.  We  hope  that  John  Adams  was  not 
more  ashamed  of  his  father's  honest  calling  than  of  his  own  humble 
birth.  In  the  day  of  bitter  political  animosities,  however,  it  did  not 
fail  to  be  remembered  against  him,  and  thus  cruelly  cast  in  his  teeth  : 

"  Gods  !  how  they'd  stare,  should  fickle  Fortune  drop 
The  mushroom  lordlings  where  she  picked  them  up, 
In  tinkers',  cobblers',  or  book-binders'  shop." 


BIRTHPLACES    OF  THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS  83 

Of  John  Adams'  mother  we  know  even  less.  The  life  of  a 
farmer's  wife  was  not  apt  to  be  a  bed  of  roses  in  those  days.  But 
there  is  one  thing  which  speaks  volumes.  It  is  said  that  up  to  his 
dying  day  John  Adams  never  omitted  to  repeat,  at  bed-time,  that 
dear  little  prayer  of  infancy,  first  learned  no  doubt  at  his  mother's 
knee  from  out  of  the  well-thumbed  old  New  England  Primer  : 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

Both  parents  came  from  good  old  Puritan  stock,  and  that  is 
much ;  for  we  are  not  now  apologizing  for  the  Puritan,  and  are 
consoled  by  Mr.  Gladstone's  recent  declaration  that  Puritanism  is  a 
"  Great  Fact."  Coming  from  a  Churchman  who  once  held  that 
all  the  Dissenters  in  England  should  be  ineligible  to  office,  this 
also  is  much. 

Seated  on  an  old  stone  wall  near  by,  I  tried  to  imagine  young 
John  Adams,  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  smalls,  ditching  in  yonder 
meadow,  as  the  parental  alternative  to  the  detested  Latin  grammar. 
He  declares  that  he  found  ditching  harder  than  the  grammar,  and 
the  first  forenoon  the  longest  he  ever  experienced.  From  having 
first  jumped  at  the  offer,  he  finally  had  to  put  his  pride  in  his 
pocket,  and  go  back  to  study  again,  as  his  father  no  doubt  knew 
he  would ;  for  the  elder  Adams,  honest  man !  meant  that  his  son 
should  be  something  better  than  he  himself  was,  though  he  did  not 
live  to  see  his  hopes  more  than  realized.  Like  a  great  many  other 
men  who  have  become  famous,  John  Adams,  we  infer  from  the 
anecdote,  was  a  dull  scholar.  We  can  well  imagine  what  scraping 
and  saving  it  must  have  cost  his  father  to  send  him  to  Harvard. 
From  this  time  forward  his  story  is  that  of  the  hard-working  student 
who  is  filled  with  magnificent  aspirations  without  the  means  of 
gratifying  them.  After  leaving  college  he  studied  law,  teaching 
school  at  the  same  time  for  a  living.  Then,  while  still  poor  and 
friendless,  came  his  first  triumph  of  being  admitted  to  the  Suffolk 
bar;  and  three  years  later  his  father  died,  leaving  him  this  farm. 


84  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES. 

Here  in  Quincy  he  began  the  practice  of  law.  Being  thus  installed 
as  head  of  the  family  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  John  Adams  be 
thought  him,  like  most  young  men,  of  a  helpmeet  ;  and  as  we 
conceive  this  happy  thought  of  his  to  have  been  the  true  incentive 
and  life-long  inspiration  of  his  career,  let  us  endeavor  to  sketch  the 
portrait  of  the  lady.  As  some  one  has  so  justly  observed,  since  so 
much  has  been  said  about  the  sufferings  of  the  forefathers,  why  not 
say  something  too  about  the  sufferings  of  the  foremothers,  who,  in 
addition  to  those  trials  common  to  both,  had  also  to  endure  the 
forefathers  themselves. 

Miss  Abigail  Smith,  second  daughter  of  the  Rev.  William  Smith 
of  Weymouth,  had  as  much  education  as  was  usual  with  young 
ladies  of  her  day.  She  had  never  been  sent  to  any  school.  A 
clergyman's  daughter  was,  however,  considered  as  having  as  much 
better  opportunities  than  other  girls  in  this  respect  as  in  her  social 
standing.  But  in  this  case,  Miss  Smith  seems  to  have  derived  her 
training  chiefly  from  her  grandmother  Quincy,  of  Mount  Wollaston, 
with  whom  she  spent  a  good  deal  of  her  time,  very  profitably  if  we 
may  judge  by  results.  It  is  here  that  the  reader's  curiosity  touching 
the  union  of  the  names  Quincy-Adams  is  first  gratified.  Miss 
Smith's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Hon.  John  Quincy  of  Mount 
Wollaston. 

We  are  free  to  say  that  after  a  reperusal  of  Mrs.  Adams'  ad 
mirable  "  Letters,"  nothing  is  clearer  than  that  she  made  her  few 
advantages  go  a  great  way. 

John  Adams  courted,  and  in  1764  married  his  lady-love,  when 
she  was  twenty.  A  few  months  before  this  happy  event  occurred, 
the  young  barrister  had  been  inoculated  (as  the  custom  then  was) 
with  the  small-pox,  so  that  his  love-letters  had  to  be  well  fumi 
gated  before  reading.  Her  maiden  letters  to  him  —  such  as  we  have 
seen  —  are  full  of  the  light  bantering  of  a  high-spirited  Beatrice, 
who,  for  fear  of  letting  her  love  be  seen,  shows  it  in  every  word 
and  line.  John  Adams,  you  were  truly  a  lucky  man. 


BIRTHPLACES    OF   THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS  85 

When  the  engagement  began  to  be  noised  about,  we  learn  that 
considerable  feeling  was  manifested  among  Parson  Smith's  flock 
because  of  his  letting  his  daughter  make  so  poor  a  match.  The  old 
antipathy  to  the  profession  of  the  law,  which  had  so  long  kept 
lawyers  out  of  the  Colony,  was  not  yet  extinct.  A  confused  notion 
was  abroad  that  to  be  learned  in  the  law  was  not  far  different  from 
being  learned  in  the  Black  Art.  People  will  talk.  Mr.  Smith  could 
not  fail  to  hear  of  what  was  in  the  air  from  the  gossips,  and  he  hit 
upon  a  somewhat  novel  way  of  rebuking  it.  After  the  marriage 
ceremony,  a  sermon  was  often  preached,  as  people  were  not  then 
in  such  a  hurry  to  have  things  over  with  as  they  are  now.  Before 
proceeding  on  this  occasion  Mr.  Smith  gave  out  the  text :  4'  For 
John  came  neither  eating  bread  nor  drinking  wine,  and  ye  say,  He 
hath  a  devil." 

For  the  next  ten  years  the  young  couple  lived  sometimes  here, 
at  the  old  homestead,  sometimes  at  Boston,  according  as  the  de 
mands  for  professional  services  or  the  sittings  of  the  courts  required. 
Allusion  has  already  been  made  to  the  employment  of  Adams  in 
that  celebrated  case  of  the  King  against  Captain  Preston  and  his 
men,  by  which  all  of  the  prisoners'  counsel  made  reputations. 

Up  to  this  time  the  young  barrister  was  not  much  in  public 
life,  yet  he  was  often  absent  travelling  the  circuits,  so  leaving  his 
young  wife  much  alone,  with  a  little  family  growing  up  around  her ; 
for  in  these  ten  years  a  daughter  and  three  sons  were  born  to 
them.  The  day  of  separation  came.  In  1774  Adams  was  sent  a 
delegate  to  Philadelphia.  It  will  probably  never  be  known  just  how 
much  John  Adams  owed  to  his  vigorous-minded,  yet  thoroughly 
womanly  wife,  at  this,  the  important  crisis  of  his  life.  Not  that  we 
believe  him  to  have  been  vacillating  or  irresolute,  but  that  we  know 
her  mind  was  made  up  from  the  first,  and  was,  as  woman's  mind 
generally  is  when  made  up,  fixed  and  unchangeable.  It  was  she 
who  was  called  upon  to  bear  all  the  real  burdens,  to  make  all  the 
real  sacrifices,  and  yet  seem  to  do  it  all  so  cheerfully  that  her 


86  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

absent  husband  might  have  no  excuse  for  not  standing  up  to  his 
duty  like  a  man  on  her  account.  Though  those  well-fed  delegates 
were  well  out  of  harm's  reach,  they  loved  to  have  their  little  joke 
about  the  hangman's  noose.  Hers  was  the  post  of  real  danger. 
With  the  siege  of  Boston  came  that  sinister  train  of  daily  happen 
ings  to  which  John  Adams  was  fortunately  a  stranger.  In  one  of 
her  letters  to  him  she  says,  "  The  constant  roar  of  the  cannon  is 
so  distressing  that  we  cannot  eat,  drink,  or  sleep."  In  another, 
"  You  can  hardly  imagine  how  much  we  want  many  common  small 
articles  ;  not  one  pin  to  be  purchased  for  love  or  money."  In  an 
other,  "I  have  been  like  a  nun  in  a  cloister  ever  since  you  went 
away,  and  have  not  been  into  any  other  house  than  my  father's 
and  sister's  except  Colonel  Ouincy's."  They  did  not  live  that  way 
at  Philadelphia,  it  is  certain. 

During  this  time  of  trial  we  now  and  then  hear  of  little  Johnny 
acting  as  post-rider  between  Boston  and  Braintree ;  and  we  have 
somewhere  read  that  the  minute-men  actually  melted  up  his  moth 
er's  silver  spoons  for  bullets,  not  at  all  on  account  of  their  supposed 
superior  efficacy  in  using  up  a  "  regular,"  but  because  of  the  great 
scarcity  of  lead. 

Mrs.  Adams  gives  a  most  graphic  description  of  the  patriot  camps, 
and  of  the  new-fledged  generals  —  how  they  looked,  spoke,  and  acted. 
She  relates  how  this  house  shook  in  the  terrible  bombardment  by 
which  Washington  masked  his  seizure  of  Dorchester  Heights.  There 
is  no  such  day-to-day,  absolutely  truthful  reporter  of  these  momentous 
events  as  she.  Little  John  Ouincy  Adams,  then  in  his  ninth  year, 
was  now  the  man  of  the  house.  From  this  same  Penn's  Hill  over 
against  us  he  and  his  mother  saw  the  thick  black  smoke  arising  from 
burning  Charlestown  on  the  dreadful  clay  of  Bunker  Hill ;  and,  during 
all  the  continuance  of  the  siege,  the  lad  ascended  the  hill  every 
evening  to  see  the  shells  thrown  by  the  opposing  armies  —  to  him 
only  a  brilliant  pyrotechnic  display. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  in  what  kind  of  school  Mrs.  Adams 


BIRTHPLACES    OF   THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS  87 

was  reared.  Her  native  refinement  of  mind  is  visible  in  the  son  who 
is  known  to  us  as  "  The  old  man  eloquent."  k'  The  cradle-hymns 
of  the  child  were  the  songs  of  liberty." 

That  was  probably  a  proud  though  sad  day  in  this  household  when 
that  bluff  old  sea-clog,  Captain  Tucker,  came  up  to  Braintree  in  his 
barge  to  take  John  Adams  on  board  his  ship,  as  ambassador  to  France. 
The  frigate  Boston  was  lying  out  in  Nantasket  Road  waiting  for  him, 
and  on  February  I5th  she  sailed  away  under  a  press  of  canvas.  Sir 
Henry  Wotton  once  defined  an  ambassador  as  "an  honest  gentleman 
sent  to  lie  abroad  for  the  good  of  his  country."  We  are  not  informed 
how  Mr.  Adams  may  have  acquitted  himself  in  this  respect ;  but  it  is 
mentioned  for  the  purpose  of  drawing  attention  to  the  fact  that  young 
John  here  began  his  apprenticeship  in  the  school  of  diplomacy  —  a 
calling  in  which  he  was  destined  to  be  hardly  less  distinguished  than 
his  father. 

John  Q.  was  not  quite  eleven  when  he  went  with  his  father  to 
France.  We  feel  that  the  mother's  heart  must  have  been  wrung  by 
this  separation  from  her  boy,  yet  she  was  equal  to  it.  At  fourteen  he 
was  Minister  Dana's  private  secretary  at  St.  Petersburg ;  and  at  a 
later  period  he  became  minister  to  that  court  himself,  where  no  less 
than  three  Bostonians  have  served  in  a  like  capacity.  It  was  he  who 
so  happily  hit  off  Siberia,  which  he  said  contained  malachite  and  male 
factors.  He  also  said  this  was  about  all  that  was  known  about  it 
among  the  Russians.  But  we  are  not  writing  his  biography ;  we  are 
merely  suggesting  the  mother's  influence  as  potent  in  shaping  this 
young  man's  career,  in  moulding  his  cast  of  thought,  in  softening  the 
asperities  which  we  so  frequently  encounter  in  the  elder  Adams.  In 
this  family  there  have  been  no  gamblers,  roues,  or  drunkards.  Public 
life  did  not  necessarily  lead  to  indulgence  in  vice  or  debauchery. 
This  is  what  we  should  call  applied  Puritanism. 

There  is  a  pleasing  glimpse  of  "  little  Johnny,"  the  oldest  boy  and 
future  President  of  the  United  States,  in  a  letter  written  by  John 
Adams  from  France,  to  his  kinsman  Samuel  Adams,  who  has  been 


88 


OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


decorated  with  the  significant  title  of   4i  The    Last    of   the    Puritans." 

o 

The  letter  says :  4l  The  child  whom  you  used  to  lead  out  into  the 
Common  to  see  with  detestation  the  British  troops,  and  with  pleasure 
the  Boston  militia,  will  have  the  honor  to  deliver  you  this  letter.  He 
has  since  seen  the  troops  of  most  nations  in  Europe,  without  any 
ambition,  I  hope,  of  becoming  a  military  man.  He  thinks  of  the  bar 
and  peace,  and  civil  life,  and  I  hope  will  follow  and  enjoy  them  with 


HOME    OF    JOHN    gUINCY    ADAMS. 

less  interruption  than  his  father  could.  I  think  it  no  small  proof  of 
his  discretion  that  he  chooses  to  go  to  New  England  rather  than  to 
Old.  You  and  I  know  that  it  will  probably  be  more  for  his  honor  and 
his  happiness  in  the  result,  but  young  gentlemen  of  eighteen  do  not 
always  see  through  the  same  medium  with  old  ones  of  fifty." 

The  reply  is  equally  eloquent  of  a  robust  patriotism.  It  says : 
"The  child  whom  I  led  by  the  hand  with  a  particular  design,  I 
find  is  now  become  a  promising  youth.  He  brought  me  one  of  your 


BIRTHPLACES    OF   THE   PRESIDENTS  ADAMS  89 

letters.  God  bless  the  lacl !  If  I  was  instrumental  at  that  time  of 
enkindling-  the  sparks  of  patriotism  in  his  tender  heart,  it  will  add  to 
my  consolation  in  the  latest  hour." 

But  if  Sam  Adams  was  thus  proud  of  kindling  "  the  sparks  of 
patriotism  "  in  just  one  youthful  heart,  John  Adams  may  truthfully 
be  said  to  have  caused  a  regular  conflagration  by  his  famous  utter 
ance  that  the  Fourth  of  July  "ought  to  be  celebrated  with  pomp 
and  parade,  with  shows,  games,  sports,  guns,  bells,  bonfires,  and 
illuminations,  from  one  end  of  this  continent  to  the  other,  from  this 
time  forward  evermore."  With  John  Adams  these  occasional  eruptions 
tend  to  show  the  slumbering  fires  beneath  a  somewhat  cold  exterior  ; 
and  while  probably  no  utterance  ever  called  forth  such  unbounded 
enthusiasm  on  the  one  hand,  or  such  execration  on  the  other,  we 
are  sure  it  was  the  heartfelt  tribute  of  an  honest  man  who  loved  his 
country  as  well  as  he  had  served  it  faithfully. 

To  return  to  the  house  itself,  of  whose  exact  age  we  have  no 
certain  knowledge  beyond  the  year  of  John  Adams'  birth  (though  it 
looks  old  enough  to  date  at  any  time  since  the  settlement  of  the 
town,  and  is  of  the  prevailing  type  of  that  early  time)  :  we  find  it 
stated  that  Henry  Adams,  the  English  emigrant,  settled  at  Mount 
Wollaston  (of  which  Quincy  now  forms  a  part),  and  that  from  his 
time  onward  the  successive  generations  of  the  family  continued  to 
live  on  the  same  farm,  down  to  the  birth  of  John  Adams,  who,  in 
his  turn,  transmitted  it  to  his  son. 

Though  considerably  the  older  of  the  two  houses  now  standing 
nearly  side  by  side,  this  one  has  much  the  more  modern  appearance, 
in  consequence  of  its  being  better  kept  up,  while  the  other  shows 
unmistakable  signs  of  neglect.  I  suppose  that  hundreds  of  people 
visit  the  place  every  year,  drawn  thither  by  curiosity  or  the  gratifi 
cation  of  a  more  laudable  feeling,  who  are  equally  struck  with  the 
want  of  local  pride  as  shown  in  these  historic  homes.  There  ought 
to  be,  and  it  is  devoutly  to  be  hoped  yet  may  be,  a  better  appreci 
ation  of  the  fact  that  most  people  will  go  farther  to  see  one  such 


90  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

humble  dwelling  as  this,  with  its  consecrated  memories,  than  all  the 
palatial  residences  reared  by  wealth.  A  pilgrimage  to  Stratford-on- 
Avon  is  different  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Ouincy  only  in  degree. 

The  house  in  which  John  Adams  first  went  to  housekeeping, 
and  in  which  his  son  John  Ouincy  Adams  was  born,  should  be  of 
somewhat  later  date,  though  from  having  escaped  modern  altera 
tions  it  looks  older  than  the  other.  From  1800  to  1804,  Rev.  Peter 
Whitney,  pastor  of  the  First  Congregational  Society,  lived  in  it. 
But  from  the  time  of  Mrs.  Adams'  departure  from  it,  in  1784,  to 
join  her  husband  in  London,  to  resign  the  care  of  her  cows  and 
her  kitchen  garden  for  routs  and  receptions  (very  cavalier  recep 
tions  too,  they  were,  from  certain  royal  personages),  to  play  the 
fine  lady,  and,  in  short,  to  be  the  representative  of  a  great  triumph 
to  those  to  whom  it  was  only  a  great  humiliation,  the  personal 
associations  with  the  old  home  which  had  become  so  endeared  to 
her  were  broken  up  forever.  We  can  imagine  the  look  she  must 
have  cast  around  her  when  turning  away  from  the  home  to  which 
she  had  been  taken  as  a  bride,  where  her  children  had  been  born, 
and  whose  every  tree  and  shrub,  every  stick  and  stone,  she  would 
impress  on  her  memory  by  one  all-embracing  look.  Undoubtedly 
women  have  a  much  stronger  attachment  for  locality  than  men.  It  is 
Fontenelle,  I  think,  who  says  that  women  have  a  fibre  more  in  the 
heart,  and  a  cell  less  in  the  brain,  than  men.  Who  will  write  the 
true  history  of  the  women  of  the  Revolution  ?  Place  aux  dames. 


THE   ADAMS   MANSION  91 


THE   ADAMS    MANSION 

QUINCY,    MASS. 

THE  previous  chapters  contained  a  brief  sketch  of  the  more 
notable  localities  of  Quincy,  Massachusetts,  and  of  the  birthplaces  of 
the  two  Presidents  Adams.  The  fine  old  mansion  now  before  us 
is  associated  with  their  public  and  private  lives  after  they  had 
reached  exalted  positions.  It  will  easily  be  recognized  by  hun 
dreds  of  pilgrims  who  have  been  drawn  to  the  spot  by  its  mani 
fold  associations. 

In  this  house  we  realize  our  ideal  of  what  a  fine  old  colonial 
mansion  ought  to  be.  Though  a  plain,  gambrel-roofed  building, 
there  is  an  air  of  snug  and  substantial  comfort,  an  atmosphere  of 
undoubted  refinement,  of  well-earned  ease,  about  it.  The  sun  shines 
brightly  in  at  the  windows  through  the  over-shading  tree-branches, 
in  whose  foliage  the  birds  twitter  and  chirrup  as  we  approach  the 
balconied  porch.  There  are  some  fine  old  trees,  box-bordered  walks, 
conservatories,  and  flower-beds,  set  off  by  spaces  of  smooth-shaven 
turf,  in  the  grounds  about  it.  The  old  barn,  with  its  antique 
weather-vane,  which  formerly  stood  below  the  mansion,  was  long 
ago  removed  to  make  room  for  the  railway,  which,  in  passing, 
has  ploughed  a  deep  furrow  through  a  corner  of  the  estate.  Since 
then  a  new  avenue  has  been  laid  out  through  it  to  Mount  Wollas- 
ton.  But  its  dimensions  are  still  ample.  Behind  the  dwelling  the 
grounds  descend  by  a  natural  slope  to  a  little  brook,  which  goes 
gurgling  along  under  the  willows  and  down  to  the  sea  beyond. 

The  house,  built  long  before  the  Revolution  by  a  Mr.  Vassall, 
is  the  creation  of  several  owners,  and  embodies  as  many  different 
periods,  though  each  of  the  occupants,  in  enlarging  or  altering, 


92  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

according  to  his  own  ideas  or  needs,  seems  to  have  wisely  kept  in 
view  the  harmony  of  the  exterior  as  a  whole.  The  elder  Adams 
became  the  purchaser  of  the  mansion  shortly  after  the  Peace  of 
1783,  since  which  time  it  has  remained  in  the  Adams  family,  Mr. 
Charles  Francis  Adams  having,  like  his  predecessors,  caused  some 
changes  to  be  made,  both  without  and  within. 


THE   ADAMS   MANSION,    QUINCY,    MASS. 

It  would  fatigue  the  reader  if  I  were  to  enumerate  half  the 
objects  of  interest  to  be  seen  within  the  four  walls  of  the  mansion. 
The  rooms  are  filled  with  antique  furniture,  either  family  heirlooms, 
or  even  more  curious  specimens  of  foreign  make  brought  from  the 
Hague  by  the  elder  Adams  —  substantial  tokens  of  the  land  of 
ditches,  dikes,  and  burgomasters.  There  were  tall  chests  of  drawers, 
of  solid  mahogany,  with  wonderful  brasses  and  fantastically  curved 
legs  ;  and  one  portly  Dutch  bureau  in  particular,  that  looked  as 


THE   ADAMS  MANSION  93 

if  it  might  have  contained  the  household  effects  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  when  he  was  fighting  with  Alva,  or  have  come  down 
through  a  regular  succession  of  their  high  mightinesses  until  it  fell 
into  the  possession  of  our  ambassador  at  the  Hague.  Ginevra 
might  have  lain  concealed  in  it,  and  then  have  made  room  for  all  her 
bridesmaids  without  the  fatal  results  the  poet  discourses  of. 

It  seems  a  little  strange,  perhaps,  that  we  should  know  more  about 
the  domestic  lives  of  our  great  men  through  strangers  than  through 
the  nearer  medium  of  our  own  citizens.  In  the  language  of  the  old 
saying,  one  must  go  away  from  home  to  learn  the  news.  We  are  now 
speaking  of  the  past.  For  the  modern  interviewer  there  are  no 
barriers ;  for  the  unfortunate  possessor  of  a  great  reputation  there 
is  no  corner  that  he  can  call  his  own.  The  domestic  life  of  such 
a  man  as  President  Adams  is,  however,  something  in  which  we  may 
be  permitted  to  indulge  a  pardonable  curiosity,  without  prying  too 
closely  into  family  affairs,  so  closely  is  that  curiosity  allied  to  the 
feelings  of  veneration  we  have  for  the  'man  himself. 

o 

Mr.  Henry  Bradshaw  Fearon,  a  well  educated  Englishman  and 
an  observing  traveller,  visited  Boston  in  1817,  and  was  taken  out 
to  see  the  venerable  ex-president  by  the  late  Charles  Francis 
Adams.  We  will  let  the  visitor  describe  what  he  saw  and  heard  in 
his  own  way : 

"The  ex-president,"  he  says,  "is  a  handsome  old  gentleman  of 
eighty-four  ;  his  lady  is  seventy-six  (neither  is  correct)  ;  —  she  has 
the  reputation  of  superior  talents  and  great  literary  acquirements. 
Upon  the  present  occasion  the  minister  (the  day  being  Sunday)  was 
of  the  dinner  party.  As  the  table  of  a  '  late  King '  may  be  amus 
ing,  take  the  following  particulars :  first  course  —  a  pudding  made 
of  Indian  corn,  molasses,  and  butter;  second — veal,  bacon,  neck 
of  mutton,  potatoes,  cabbages,  carrots,  and  Indian  beans  ;  Madeira 
wine,  of  which  each  drank  two  glasses.  We  sat  down  to  dinner 
at  one  o'clock  :  at  two,  nearly  all  went  a  second  time  to  church. 
For  tea  we  had  pound-cake,  wheat  bread  and  butter,  and  bread 


94  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

made  of  Indian  corn  and  rye  (similar  to  our  brown,  home-made). 
Tea  was  brought  from  the  kitchen,  and  handed  round  by  a  neat 
white  servant  girl.  The  topics  of  conversation  were  various  —  Eng 
land,  America,  religion,  politics,  literature,  science  and  Dr.  Priestley, 
Miss  Edgeworth,  Mrs.  Sidclons,  Mr.  Kean,  France,  Shakespeare, 
Moore,  Lord  Byron,  Cobbett,  American  Revolution,  the  traitor, 
General  Arnold." 

We  are  thus  made  acquainted  with  what  the  polite  world  was 
talking  about  at  that  interesting  period. 

Mr.  Fearon  goes  on  to  describe  the  homestead  itself:  "The 
establishment  of  this  political  patriarch  consists  of  a  house  two 
stories  high,  containing,  I  believe,  eight  rooms  ;  of  two  men  and 
three  maid  servants  ;  three  horses  and  a  plain  carriage.  How  great 
a  contrast  between  the  individual  —  a  man  of  knowledge  and  infor 
mation —  without  pomp,  parade,  or  vicious  and  expensive  establish 
ments,  as  compared  with  the  costly  trappings,  the  depraved  characters, 
and  the  profligate  expenditure  of-  -House  and-  -!  What  a 
lesson  in  this  does  America  teach  ! " 

The  intelligent  reader  can  have  no  difficulty  in  filling  up  the 
blanks. 

One  year  later,  October,  1818,  Mrs.  Adams  was  carried  out  of 
the  house  of  which  she  had  so  long  been  the  chief  ornament  to 
be  laid  away  in  the  tomb.  Though  short,  Jefferson's  affectionate 
letter  of  condolence  can  hardly  be  read  even  now  with  dry  eyes. 
After  perusing  it,  it  is  not  so  surprising  that  Jefferson's  should 
be  the  last  name  on  the  ex-president's  lips,  or  to  find  that  a  new 
bond  had  drawn  these  two  widely  dissimilar  natures  closely  together, 
as  they  neared  the  end  of  life's  long  journey. 

The  apartment  in  which  John  Adams  passed  the  evening  of  his 
life,  after  old  age  had  rendered  him  too  feeble  to  go  abroad,  contains 
a  massive  four-post  bedstead,  with  curiously  carved  legs,  also  brought 
from  Holland,  and  on  which  the  venerable  ex-president  breathed 
his  last.  The  good  taste  which  preserves  everything  in  the  room 


THE   ADAMS  MANSION  95 

in  the  same  condition  in  which  it  was  left  by  him  is  an  unfailing 
gratification  to  those  who  may  have  enjoyed  the  privilege  of 
inspecting  the  domestic,  unartificial  life  of  this  great  and  good 
man. 

We  also  have  an  account  of  an  interview  with  the  venerable  ex- 
President  so  late  as  April,  1825,  written  by  a  lady  whose  "  Sketches" 
are  all  but  unknown  to  the  present  generation.  She  writes  as  follows  : 
"  In  one  of  these  excursions,  I  paid  my  respects  to  the  ex- President 
Adams,  of  Ouincy.  My  heart  beat  high  as  I  knocked  at  his  door, 
which  was  opened  by  a  servant.  I  told  her  I  wished  to  see  Mr. 
Adams  if  he  was  not  too  much  indisposed  (having  heard  he  had 
been  unwell.)  She  withdrew,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  most  enchanting 
female  (Mrs.  Smith)  entered  the  parlor.  I  handed  her  my  address, 
and  desired  her  to  present  it  to  the  President.  She  returned  in 
a  moment  and  asked  me  to  walk  up-stairs.  I  followed  her,  and 
took  the  precedence  in  entering  the  chamber  of  this  venerable 
patriarch.  I  found  the  dear  old  man  sitting  up  before  the  fire.  He 
would  have  risen,  but  I  flew  forward  to  prevent  him.  He  pressed 
my  hand  with  ardor  and  inquired  after  my  health." 

After  some  general  conversation,  in  answer  to  inquiries  about  him 
self,  he  replied,  "  That  he  was  then  eighty-nine  years  and  six  months 
old  ;  a  monstrous  time,"  he  added,  "  for  one  human  being  to  support." 
He  could  walk  about  the  room,  he  said,  and  even  down-stairs,  though 
he  was  at  that  time  very  feeble.  His  teeth  were  entirely  gone,  and  his 
eyesight  much  impaired  ;  he  could  just  see  the  window,  he  said,  and 
the  weather-vane  that  stood  out  before  it,  but  retained  his  hearing 
perfectly.  His  face  did  not  bear  the  marks  of  age  in  proportion  to 
his  years  ;  nor  did  he  show  the  marks  of  decay  in  his  appearance,  with 
the  exception  of  his  teeth,  and  his  legs,  which  were  evidently  much 
reduced.  He  was  dressed  in  a  green  camblet  morning-gown,  with 
his  head  uncovered,  except  his  venerable  locks,  which  were  per 
fectly  white.  Like  a  calm  evening  sun,  he  is  imperceptibly  gliding  to 
lighten  other  worlds." 


96  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Within  a  little  more  than  a  twelvemonth  the  good  old  man  had 
o-one  to  that  bourn  whence  no  traveller  returns.  He  was  attended 

;-> 

during  his  last  illness  by  Louisa  Smith,  the  niece  and  adopted  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Abigail  Adams,  who  stated  that  the  last  words  uttered  by  the 
dying  statesman  were,  "  Thomas  Jefferson."  The  rest  was  inarticulate. 
This  was  at  i  P.M.,  July  4th,  1826,  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  that 
independence  he  had  done  so  much  towards  achieving. 

Another  apartment,  which  I  believe  to  be  unique,  deserves  men 
tion,  as  in  no  other  of  our  old  New  England  mansions  have  I  seen 
its  like.  It  is  wainscoted  from  floor  to  ceiling  in  mahogany.  The 
wood  has  acquired  with  age  a  deep  rich  color,  that  harmonizes  well 
with  the  pictured  tiles,  tall  fire-irons,  and  antique  furniture.  It  did 
not  speak  so  well  for  the  taste  of  the  elder  Adams  that  he  had  caused 
the  paneling  of  this  room  to  be  covered  with  a  coat  of  white  paint, 
which  it  had  cost  much  labor  to  remove. 

The  portraits  in  this  room  keep  touch  and  time  with  the  furniture. 
They  are  especially  interesting  as  specimens  of  the  first  century  of 
American  art.  As  all  the  ceilings  throughout  the  house  are  very  low, 
giving  not  more  than  seven,  or  seven  and  a  half  feet  of  clear  space,  the 
paintings  are  not  seen  to  the  best  advantage.  In  the  first  room  I 
entered  were  the  well-known  portraits  of  John  Adams  and  his  wife, 
Abigail  Adams,  both  Stuarts.  The  former  is  the  original  from  which 

o  <^> 

the  portrait  by  Longacre  was  engraved  ;  the  latter  was  engraved  by 
Stone  for  the  National  Portrait  Gallery.  Her  death  occurred  in  1818. 
Hanging  between  these  two  beautiful  likenesses  was,  I  think,  the  gem 
of  the  room,  a  portrait  of  John  Ouincy  Adams  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
done  in  England,  by  Copley,  while  John  Adams,  an  old  acquaintance 
of  the  painter,  was  resident  there.  It  is  altogether  a  fine  canvas,  repre 
senting  a  very  handsome  young  man,  with  clear,  expressive  eye,  thin 
but  finely-cut  nose,  and  thin  lips  —  a  distinguishing  peculiarity  of  the 
Adamses.  The  coloring  is  superb.  Among  portraits  of  unknown 
artists  is  a  full  length  of  little  John  Ouincy,  at  the  age  of  perhaps  six 
years,  for  whom  the  town  and  second  President  Adams  are  named. 


THE   ADAMS  MANSION  97 

The  dress  is  very  quaint,  and  nearly  coincident  with  the   settlement  of 
the  country. 

Another  portrait  is  that  of  Colonel  William  Stephens  Smith,  of 
New  York,  who  was  at  one  time  on  Baron  Steuben's  staff,  and  after 
ward  a  member  of  the  military  family  of  Washington.  Colonel  Smith 
married,  in  London,  Abigail,  the  only  daughter  of  John  Adams,  whose 
secretary  of  legation  he  was.  It  will  be  remembered  that  in  the 
memorable  affair  of  Trenton,  Smith  was  acting  as  aide-de-camp  to 
General  Sullivan,  who  commanded  the  advance.  After  crossing  the 
Delaware,  Sullivan,  wholly  dazed  at  finding  his  men's  ammunition 
spoiled  by  the  rain  and  sleet,  sent  off  Smith  to  Washington  with 
the  unwelcome  news,  and  to  ask  for  further  orders.  The  general 
was  found  just  getting  ready  to  mount  his  horse.  Smith  declared 
that  he  could  never  forget,  to  his  dying  clay,  the  startling  vehemence 
with  which  Washington  exclaimed,  "  Go  back,  Sir,  and  tell  General 
Sullivan  to  go  on  !  " 

We  have  often  been  struck  by  the  historical  parallel  furnished  to 
this  brilliant  master-stroke  by  Napoleon  when,  after  retreating  almost 
to  the  gates  of  Paris,  he  suddenly  turned  on  his  pursuers,  and  with 
only  fifteen  thousand  men  fought  the  bloody  combat  at  Montereau, 
putting  to  rout  thirty-five  thousand  of  the  allied  troops,  who  were 
as  far  from  expecting  such  an  onslaught  as  Howe,  Cornwallis,  or  Rahl 
were  at  Trenton.  Napoleon  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  Now  I  am  as 
near  Vienna  as  they  are  to  Paris."  With  equal  truth  Washington 
might  have  said,  "  Now  I  am  as  near  New  York  as  they  are  to  Phila 
delphia." 

Mrs.  Smith's  portrait  by  Copley  was,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  de 
stroyed  by  fire  ;  but  there  is  a  capital  engraved  likeness  taken  from  it 
in  Griswold's  "The  Republican  Court." 

Colonel  Smith  is  said  to  have  stood  for  the  limbs  of  Washington, 
in  the  full-length  portrait  by  Stuart,  that  formerly  hung  in  Faneuil 
Hall,  Boston,  though  I  have  heard  that  the  painter  always  insisted 
that  the  legs  were  his  own.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that 


98  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Stuart,  upon  being  once  asked  to  describe  Washington's  figure,  said 
very  bluntly,  that  his  lower  limbs  were  better  suited  to  the  saddle 
than  to  grace  a  drawing-room. 

The  portraits  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  by  Stuart,  and  of  Mrs. 
Louisa  Catherine  Adams,  hung  in  the  bed-chamber  before  alluded 
to,  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  The  former,  although  not  so  satisfactory 
to  the  family,  as  a  likeness,  is  the  one  best  known  to  the  public. 
I  did  not  recognize,  in  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Adams,  the  well-known 
canvas  of  Leslie.  Besides  these,  which  have  become  in  a  sense  public 
property,  through  frequent  reproduction  in  engravings,  there  is  a 
portrait  of  John  Adams,  at  the  age  of  ninety,  also  painted  by  Stuart. 
A  full  length  of  the  same  subject,  one  of  Copley's  best  works,  and 
another  of  J.  O.  Adams,  by  Stuart,  were,  at  the  time  of  this  visit, 
in  Memorial  Hall,  Cambridge.  The  first  picture  was  placed  in  the 
custody  of  Mr.  Nicholas  Boylston,  while  Mr.  Adams  was  absent  from 
the  country,  and  was  by  that  gentleman  committed  to  the  keeping 
of  Harvard  University.  Nicholas  Boylston,  it  may  be  mentioned, 
in  passing,  was  one  of  Harvard's  many  benefactors,  and  the  founder 
of  the  professorship  bearing  his  name,  of  which  John  Quincy  Adams 
first  occupied  the  chair.  It  was  of  this  identical  picture,  as  I  have 
heard,  that  the  senior  Adams,  when  looking  at  his  counterfeit,  frankly 
observed,  i4  That  fellow  could  never  keep  his  mouth  shut." 

I  ought  not  to  omit  mention  of  the  portrait  of  General  Washing 
ton,  in  his  Continental  uniform,  by  Edward  Savage,  a  painter  little 
known  in  this  country.  The  picture  possesses  little  merit  beyond 
that  of  being  an  undoubted  likeness,  as  attested  by  John  Adams ; 
the  artist  had  no  genius  for  coloring,  nor  for  those  inspired  touches 
that  put  life  into  a  face.  This  one  is  flabby,  heavy,  leaden.  Another 
portrait,  of  Lady  Washington,  by  the  same  hand,  with  a  head-dress 
"  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,"  hangs  by  the  side  of  that  of 
the  general.  Savage  was  in  this  country  about  1791.  He  also 
painted  General  Knox,  and  engraved  copies  of  this  work  on  copper 
plate. 


THE   ADAMS  MANSION  99 

After  an  hour  agreeably  passed,  where  every  object  recalled  some 
interesting  event,  I  took  a  turn  in  the  library,  which  is  a  separate 
building  of  stone,  erected  by  Mr.  C.  F.  Adams  for  the  reception 
of  his  father's  books  and  manuscripts.  It  contains  a  single  spacious 
and  airy  apartment,  contiguous  to  the  residence,  and  is  as  cheerful- 
looking  a  workshop  as  any  literary  man  could  wish  for.  The  shelves 
are  filled  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  valuable  books  and  manuscripts. 
Among  these  treasures  are  a  number  of  bound  folios  containing 
the  voluminous  correspondence  of  the  elder  Adams,  which  has, 
in  connection  with  his  diary,  formed  the  body  for  the  elaborate 
work  of  his  grandson.  The  numerous  autographs  of  most  of  the 
distinguished  public  characters  of  his  time,  on  both  sides  of  the 
water,  give  to  these  volumes  a  rare  interest,  as  well  as  great 
intrinsic  worth.  The  private  library  of  John  Adams  was  given 
to  the  town  of  Quincy,  for  the  use  of  the  Adams  Academy, 
which  he  founded  by  liberal  donations  of  lands,  on  the  condition 
that  the  building  should  be  erected  of  stone  on  the  spot  where 
his  friends  Colonel  Quincy  and  Josiah  Quincy  once  resided,  and 
where  John  Hancock,  the  patriot,  was  born.  This  house  was 
built  by  John  Hancock's  father.  The  cellar  could  be  seen  until 
the  Academy  was  built. 

The  library  is  furnished  with  a  long  writing-table  and  a  chair 
or  two,  but  no  other  furniture  —  evidence  that  it  was  meant  for 
work.  On  entering,  a  kit-kat  portrait  of  Mr.  C.  F.  Adams  is 
the  first  thing  that  meets  the  eye.  It  is  by  Hunt,  and  no  one 
can  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  marked  resemblance  between  father 
and  son,  as  exhibited  in  their  portraits,  even  if  he  had  never 
seen  the  originals.  I  must  content  myself  with  the  briefest 
notice  of  this  favorite  haunt  of  the  statesman  and  man  of  letters. 
To  one  who  delights  in  rambles  among  old  books,  this  storehouse 
of  so  many  busy  brains,  with  its  inviting  coolness  and  seclusion, 
would  prove  an  irresistible  temptation  to  linger. 

Mr.    C.     F.    Adams'     pen    was    a    truly    busy    one.       Besides    the 


100  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

letters  of  his  grandmother,  one  of  the  most  charming  characters 
of  her  time,  he  has  edited  the  "  Life  and  Letters"  of  his  grand 
father,  in  ten  thick  volumes,  and  also  the  life  of  his  father,  J.  O. 
Adams,  in  itself  a  formidable  undertaking,  as  the  author  was 
most  thorough  and  exhaustive  in  his  work.  I  do  not  undertake 

o 

to  speak  of  Mr.  Adams'  diplomatic  services  abroad  during  a 
great  national  crisis.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  regret  which 
too  often  forces  itself  upon  Americans  that  we  have  no  trained 
diplomats,  such  as  are  turned  out  from  the  British  Foreign  Office, 
and  are  therefore  forced  to  call  untried  men  to  posts  of  infinite 
responsibility,  was  changed  to  one  of  unqualified  pride  and  admira 
tion,  that  the  nation  had  found  in  Mr.  Adams  a  diplomatist  of  the 
first  rank.  In  this  connection  it  is  instructive  to  take  a  leaf  from 
his  gifted  father's  diary,  wherein  he  speaks  his  mind  so  freely  in 
regard  to  this  son's  want  of  application,  and  in  which  he  so  thinly 
veils  his  own  fears  that  the  family  traditions  would  not  be  kept  up 
through  the  next  generation  as  to  suggest  that  the  old  saw,  "It  is 
a  wise  child  who  knows  his  own  father,"  should  be  so  transposed  in 
this  case  as  to  read,  "It  is  a  wise  father  who  knows  his  own  son." 
But  here  is  the  extract  in  question.  "  Charles,"  he  says,  "  has  a 
great  fondness  for  books,  and  a  meditative  mind,  but  neither  dis 
position  nor  aptitude  for  public  speaking  or  correct  reading.  Charles 
must  teach  himself  all  that  he  learns.  He  will  learn  nothing 
from  others."  His  career  has  proved  that  he  could  hardly  have 
had  a  better  teacher  than  himself.  Yet  we  can  well  remember 
when  he  was  distinguished,  by  his  political  opponents,  as  "The 
last  of  the  Adamses." 

When  Mr.  Adams  found  himself  in  London  en  route  to  Geneva, 
he  doubted  if,  under  all  the  circumstances,  an  interview  with  his  old 
antagonist,  Lord  John  Russell,  would  be  desirable,  though  their  rela 
tions  had  always  been  friendly.  The  ex-premier,  however,  received 
Mr.  Adams  with  genuine  British  cordiality,  and  remarked  to  another 
American,  then  in  London,  that,  if  the  United  States  were  wise, 


THE   ADAMS  MANSION 

they  would  keep  Mr.  Adams  at  St.  James'  for  life.  Lord  John 
possessed  the  good  old  English  trait  of  giving  as  well  as  of  taking, 
and  his  blows  were  invariably  returned  with  interest  by  our  repre 
sentative.  Mrs.  Adams  was  a  daughter  of  Peter  C.  Brooks,  one 
of  the  eminent  merchants  of  old  Boston.  She  died  at  Ouincy, 
June  6,  1889.  Edward  Everett  and  Dr.  Frothingham  were  also 
sons-in-law  of  Mr.  Brooks. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  house  itself;  many  distin 
guished  personages  have  been  received  in  it.  Lafayette,  for  in 
stance,  in  1825,  found  himself  once  more  in  presence  of  John  Adams. 

"That  is  not  the  John  Adams  I  remember,"  said  he,  sadly 
shaking  his  head  as  he  left  the  mansion. 

"That  is  not  the  Lafayette  I   knew,"  echoed  the  patriarch. 

As  both  had  grown  old  since  last  they  met,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
each  saw  in  the  countenance  of  the  other  the  ravages  of  time.  Mr. 
Monroe,  during  his  tour  of  the  Eastern  States,  paid  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Adams,  and  passed  a  few  hours  in  unconstrained  chat  with  him,  the 
pair  walking  arm-in-arm  about  the  grounds  like  any  two  staid  old 
gentlemen.  Bernard,  Duke  of  Saxe- Weimar,  after  his  arrival  in  this 
country,  waited  on  the  ex-President.  Being  accompanied  by  a 
young  naval  officer  named  Van  Tromp,  a  descendant  perhaps  of  the 
great  Dutch  admiral,  when  he  was  presented  to  Mr.  Adams,  the  old 
man  of  ninety  swung  his  hat  in  the  air  and  shouted,  "  Hurrah  for 
Van  Tromp  !  "  On  this  occasion  the  talk  was  all  of  Holland.  The 
aged  host  recalled  with  undisguised  pleasure  the  fact  that  he  had 
induced  the  States  to  declare  for  the  alliance  with  America,  and 
that  the  English  ambassador  could  not  prevent  it,  notwithstanding 
his  intrigues.  It  was  then,  when  England  had  haughtily  demanded 
satisfaction  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  that  the  old  Brummbar  (the 
King  of  Prussia)  expressed  great  displeasure,  saying:  "  Puisque  les 
Anglais  veulent  la  guerre  avec  tout  le  monde,  Us  r  auront" 

The  annals  of  the  Adams  family  present  some  interesting  coin 
cidences.  Father,  son,  and  grandson  have  all  been  ministers  at  the 


O  L  ~R    COL  ONIAL    HOMES 

same  court.  Francis  Dana,  who  was  the  first  envoy  of  the  United 
States  to  St.  Petersburg,  accompanied  the  elder  Adams  to  Paris 
as  secretary  of  legation  in  17/9.  It  was  at  this  time  that  Madame 
de  Vennmnes  naively  said  to  Mr.  Adams,  as  he  was  taking  her  out 

£•>  J  ^> 

to  dinner,  "  Ah,  Monsieur,  vous  etcs  Ic  Washington  dc  negotiation" 
John  Ouincy  Adams  was  also  our  ambassador  to  St.  Petersburg 
during  the  invasion  by  Napoleon.  I  have  been  tempted  to  con 
trast  the  conduct  of  Russia  under  the  Empress  Catherine  II.,  when 
besought  by  England  not  to  aid  her  rebellious  subjects  in  America, 
with  that  of  the  British  ministry  during  the  late  civil  war  in  this 
country. 

England  endeavored  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  counteract 
the  growing  predilection  of  the  empress  toward  America.  Sir  James 
Harris  (Lord  Malmesbury),  then  British  minister  to  St.  Petersburg, 
says  that  England  offered,  in  1781,  to  cede  Minorca  to  Russia  if 
that  power  would  effect  a  peace  between  the  former  and  France 
and  Spain  ;  no  stipulation  or  agreement  whatever  to  be  made  with 
regard  to  his  majesty's  rebellious  subjects  in  America,  "  who  could 
never  be  suffered  to  treat  through  the  medium  of  a  foreign  power" 
The  negotiation  was  without  success.  The  empress  continued  to 
use  her  good  offices  in  behalf  of  America,  even  hinting  that  Euro 
pean  peace  might  be  had  by  England's  renouncing  the  struggle 
she  \vas  making  with  her  colonies.  In  1781,  suspecting  some  ships 
intended  for  privateers  were  building  at  Archangel,  on  American 
account,  the  empress  gave  orders  that  they  should  be  stopped. 
She,  however,  exhibited  an  ill-concealed  joy  when  the  news  of  the 
surrender  of  Cornwallis  reached  St.  Petersburg.  The  British  envoy 
succeeded  in  preventing  Mr.  Dana's  official  recognition  until  after 
the  exchange  of  ratifications,  although  the  empress  had  expressed  a 
willingness  to  grant  him  an  audience  on  receiving  the  news  of  the 
preliminaries  of  peace. 

In  1825,  John  Ouincy  Adams  became  President.  Let  us  draw 
aside  the  curtain,  and  for  a  moment  look  at  the  President  as  he 


THE   ADAMS  MANSION  103 

appeared  at  his  fortnightly  receptions.  The  account  from  which 
we  quote  goes  on  to  say :  "  We  passed  through  a  large  vestibule 
or  hall,  and  entered  a  circular  room  brilliantly  lighted,  where  we 
found  Mr.  Adams  and  his  lady,  to  each  of  whom  I  was  formally 
introduced  by  my  companion.  Mr.  Adams  is  a  man  of  letters,  a 
fine  scholar,  and  a  good  statesman.  His  stature,  you  observe,  is  low, 
his  head  somewhat  bald,  and  his  eye  watery,  but  full  and  pene 
trating.  He  is  reserved,  but  not  repulsive,  charitable,  though  for 
mal,  and  possessing  great  warmth  of  feeling  under  an  exterior  of 
apparent  coldness.  But,  with  your  consent,  we  will  take  up  a 
position  where  we  shall  be  more  convenient  to  the  ices,  which,  I 
perceive,  are  just  making  their  appearance." 

John  Ouincy  Adams  had  been  intimate  with  Burke,  Fox,  Sheri 
dan,  and  Pitt.  Like  the  elder  Pitt,  he  died  in  harness.  He  was  a 
man  of  extraordinary  physical  and  intellectual  vigor.  Even  as  an 
octogenarian  he  was  an  early  riser,  taking  long  walks  before  other 
people  were  astir.  His  studies  for  the  day  were  usually  finished 
before  he  took  his  breakfast.  He  wrote  and  talked  admirably. 
When  he  was  minister  at  Berlin  he  wrote  the  "  Letters  on  Silesia," 
published  in  London  in  1804,  from  which  Carlyle  quotes  in  his 
'  Frederick."  The  day  before  his  last  illness  he  composed  a  piece 
of  poetry  to  a  young  lady.  His  letters  to  his  sister  were  models  in 
beauty  of  thought  and  expression  ;  and  his  conversation  was  fasci 
nating  and  instructive  to  a  degree  which  few  men  have  equaled. 
Born  in  the  clay  of  colonial  vassalage,  he  lived  to  see  his  country  a 
strong  and  prosperous  republic. 

When  stricken  down  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  he  had  in  his 
hand  the  memorial  of  M.  Vattemare  relative  to  his  collection.  The 
House  was  then  considering  a  joint  resolution  of  thanks  to  General 
Twiggs  and  other  officers  of  our  army  in  Mexico.  The  members 
arose  in  confusion,  and  Mr.  Adams  was  carried  into  the  Speaker's 
room  in  a  dying  condition.  This  was  on  the  2ist  of  February,  1848. 
The  senate  adjourned,  on  motion  of  Mr.  Benton,  as  soon  as  the 


104  Oi'R    COLONIAL    HOMES 

news  of  Mr.  Adams'  illness  reached  that  chamber.  Mr.  Clay 
entered  the  room  where  the  dying  man  lay,  and  held  his  hand  a 
long-  time  without  speaking,  while  the  tears  rolled  down  his  rugged 
face.  All  present  were  deeply  affected  at  the  scene.  The  Mexi 
can  treaty,  but  just  arrived,  was  forgotten.  On  the  23d  the  "  old 
man  eloquent"  expired.  Daniel  Webster,  then  a  senator,  wrote 
the  inscription  for  his  coffin  ;  and  his  remains  were  laid  away  with 
those  of  his  father  and  mother  in  a  crypt  built  for  the  purpose 
under  the  porch  of  the  Adams  Temple  in  Quincy.  There  they  now 
rest. 


THE    OLD   SHIP  105 


THE    OLD    SHIP 

HINGHAM,    MASS. 

HINGHAM,  Massachusetts,  is  one  of  the  prettiest  towns  on  the 
New-England  coast.  There  was  once  a  woman  who  wished  that, 
after  death,  she  might  go  to  Paris ;  so  the  truly  good  Bostonian 
would  desire,  no  doubt,  to  go  to  Hingham.  It  lies  in  the  hollow 
arm  of  land  that  encloses  within  its  circling  sweep  the  waters  of  Bos 
ton  Bay.  There  is  only  a  narrow  strip  of  Weymouth  to  be  crossed, 
between  it  and  Quincy,  and  all  the  way  you  are  walking  over  his 
toric  ground.  Then  again,  it  is  not  more  than  a  dozen  miles  from 
the  city  across  this  bay  sprinkled  with  islands  ;  or  you  may  take  the 
rail  and  reach  Hingham  by  a  jaunt,  a  little  extended  as  to  distance, 
but  not  longer  as  to  time.  The  favorite  conveyance,  however,  in 
fine  weather,  is  by  the  steamboat,  when  every  hour  you  may  see  a 
never-ending  throng  of  pallid  humanity  hurrying  from  the  hot  and 
dusty  streets  of  the  city,  to  breathe  with  delight  the  invigorating 
breezes,  cool  and  fresh,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  from 
the  briny  ocean.  But  whichever  way  you  may  have  come,  there  is  a 
story  everywhere. 

Hingham  is  also  one  of  those  old  towns  with  a  history.  You 
cannot  put  your  finger  on  the  man  who  staked  it  out.  There  are 
no  great  ruthless  furrows  of  new  streets  everywhere  ploughed 
through  it  —  improvements  I  believe  they  call  them.  Wherever  it 
has  been  let  alone  it  is  beautiful ;  where  improved,  unsightly.  It 
has  a  character  not  at  all  owing  to  handsome  summer  cottages  or 
sea-shore  hotels.  Cottages  and  hotels  have  simply  availed  them 
selves  of  its  natural  attractions.  An  old  Puritan  town,  with  founda 
tions  resting  on  the  graves  of  centuries  —  that  is  the  real  Hingham! 


io6 


OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


Well,   it  is  the  real    Hingham  that  we  are    now  seeking  with    all 

our  eyes.     What  is  to  be  seen  there  besides  its  picturesque  features 

-  its  superb    sea-views,   its    magnificent    drives   to    Nantasket    Beach 

or  over    the   Jerusalem    Road  ?     We  answer,  come  with  us  and   see. 

Placidly  seated  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  that  finely  overlooks  the 
harbor  is  Hingham's  quaint  old  meeting-house  —  precious  heirloom 


THE    OLD    SHIP.    HINGHAM,    MASS. 

of  the  past !  —  which  is  certainly  curious  enough,  inside  and  out,  to 
excite  the  unstinted  wonder  of  a  worshipper  in  modern  temples. 
In  Hingham  it  holds  the  post  of  honor,  both  as  respects  its 
situation,  and  as  respects  that  faint  little  spark  of  sentiment  which 
we  are  doing  our  best  to  keep  alive  by  such  frequent  use  of  the 
bellows.  It  is  going  down  the  vale  of  years  in  a  beautiful  old  age. 
This  building  has  now  been  standing  two  fully  completed  cen 
turies.  If,  unfortunately,  it  should  be  destroyed  to-morrow,  we 


THE    OLD    SHIP  107 

shall  have  lost  the  oldest  church  edifice  of  English  handiwork 
not  a  ruin  in  all  the  Union.  How  many  useless  regrets  there 
would  be !  Where  should  we  ever  get  another  ?  What  a  pity  it 
is  that  such  monuments  -  -  monuments  of  peace  —  could  not  be 
as  indestructible  as  those  at  Saratoga  or  Bunker  Hill  —  monuments 
of  war !  Just  look  at  it !  Nothing  like  it,  I  fancy,  has  ever  come 
across  your  puzzled  vision  before.  Compare  that  short,  sharp, 
decisive-looking  spire,  springing  up  from  that  quaint  little  turret 
above  such  a  wilderness  of  sloping  roof,  with  the  tall  steeples, 
stately  mediaeval  architecture,  and  luxurious  belongings  of  churches 
of  the  same  denomination  of  a  more  modern  date.  Perhaps  when 
this  house  was  building,  not  a  few  of  the  frugal  husbandmen  or 
fishermen,  who  then  constituted  the  congregation,  may  have  thought 
it  a  most  remarkable  manifestation  of  human  pride.  Possibly  they 
came  many  miles  to  see  it  Perhaps,  too,  for  they  were  rigid 
economists,  they  grumbled  not  a  little  at  the  expense.  It  cost  just 
^430  with  the  old  meeting-house  thrown  in.  Is  it  not  an  impres 
sive  example  of  what  all  these  years  have  wrought  in  the  outward 
form  of  religious  worship?  From  1681  to  1893  is  certainly  a 
goodly  vale  of  years  for  the  imagination  to  bridge  over.  John 
Milton  had  been  dead  only  a  few  years,  and  James  II.  had  not 
ascended  the  throne  of  England,  when  this  house  was  built. 

o 

Some  aesthetic  souls  have  fancied  that  the  early  Puritan  meet 
ing-houses,  plain  to  homeliness  as  they  were,  must  be  the  outward 
expression  of  that  morbid  antipathy  for  the  beautiful  that  formed 
part  of  the  Puritan's  character.  That  he  preferred  to  sit  shivering 
in  an  ill-built  house,  wearing  out  his  bones  on  a  hard  bench,  to 
yielding  to  the  allurements  of  Satan  in  the  form  of  stone  buttresses, 
Gothic  arches,  or  soft  cushions — as  if,  in  short,  mortification  of  the 
flesh  was  all  his  creed.  The  true  explanation,  we  think,  is  that  he 
built  all  he  could  pay  for,  and  paid  for  all  he  built.  The  time  had 
not  yet  come  when  a  big  church  debt  should  be  considered  a  mark 
of  prosperity.  Frugality,  economy,  were  parts  of  every  man's  creed. 


108  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

But  before  he  would  have  anything"  else,  he  would  have  some  place 
to  worship  God  in,  be  it  ever  so  humble.  And  in  all  his  poverty, 
all  his  misery,  the  Puritan,  who  contributed  his  mite,  was  doubtless 
consoled  by  the  reflection  that  the  Son  of  man  was  first  wor 
shipped  while  lying  in  a  manger. 

The  undeniable  feeling  we  have  for  such  determined  and 
pathetic  seeking  after  God,  in  the  wilderness,  could  be  no  better 
evinced  than  by  the  marked  popularity  of  such  admirable  historical 
paintings  as  Boughton's  "  Pilgrims  Going"  to  Meeting."  Even  modern 
scepticism  is  not  proof  against  the  simple  fact  that  those  people 
believed  in  something ;  believed  so  thoroughly  as  to  be  willing  to 
lay  down  their  lives  rather  than  be  deprived  of  the  blessed  privi 
lege  of  Sabbath  worship. 

We  are  forcibly  reminded  of  all  this  by  a  reference  to  the 
building  of  the  first  house  of  worship  here,  of  which  the  one 
before  us  is  the  successor.  That  first  house  was  probably  erected 
very  soon  after  the  settlers  arrived  here,  at  what  was  then  known  as 
Bear  Cove,  in  1635.  Like  this  one,  it  had  its  belfry  and  its  bell; 
but,  unlike  this,  it  had  to  be  surrounded  by  a  stout  palisade,  which 
shows  us  that  under  what  difficulties  soever  the  worship  of  God 
might  be  conducted  in  those  days,  the  Puritan  would  not  be  kept 
away  from  ii.  In  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word  the  Sabbath  was  his 
holiday.  This  old  house,  of  which  unfortunately  no  picture  is  known 
to  exist,  stood  in  the  middle  of  what  is  now  Main  Street,  opposite 
to  where  the  Derby  Academy  now  stands. 

We  are  told  that  some  of  the  timbers  of  the  first  house  were 
used  in  constructing  the  new  one.  If  that  be  the  case,  the  later 

o 

house  has  the  same  sort  of  claim  to  be  considered  part  and  parcel 
of  the  original  structure  as  the  present  frigate  Constitution,  of 
glorious  memory,  has  of  being  worshipped  as  the  original  "  Old 
Ironsides"  -she  having  been  several  times  rebuilt.  The  Select 
men  were  likewise  directed  to  provide  a  new  bell  "  as  big  again 
as  the  old  one,  if  it  may  be  had."  But  the  whole  history  is  told 


THE    OLD    SHIP  109 

in  a  brass  tablet  fixed  to  the  meeting-house  wall.  We  have  copied 
it  for  the  reader  :  — 

"This  church  was  gathered  in  1635.  The  frame  of  this  meeting 
house  was  raised  on  the  twenty-sixth,  twenty-seventh,  and  twenty- 
eighth  days  of  July,  1681,  and  the  house  was  completed  and  opened 
for  public  worship  on  the  eighth  of  January,  1681-2.  It  cost  the 
town  ^"430  and  the  old  house." 

No,  not  all  the  history,  else  our  self-imposed  task  were  a  vain 
one. 

In  Hingham  they  often  call  this  house  "The  Old  Ship."  Should 
you  be  at  a  loss  for  the  proper  direction,  ask  the  first  youngster 
you  may  meet  for  the  Old  Ship.  In  this  local  name,  however, 
there  is  no  allusion  to  the  old  familiar  metaphors  so  effectively 
used  in  addressing  a  seafaring  congregation  ;  though,  as  to  that, 
Hingham  one  day  had  both  its  fishery  and  its  fleet.  The 
meeting-house  belfry  may  then  have  been  more  or  less  resorted 
to  as  an  advantageous  lookout ;  or  the  comparison  may  have 
been  suggested  by  the  way  the  interior  is  framed.  I  incline  to 
this  latter  opinion  myself.  However,  I  saw,  on  ascending  to  the 
belfry,  that  they  had  painted  the  points  of  the  compass  on  the 
ceiling  there,  above  the  bell,  as  in  a  ship's  binnacle. 

Outwardly  the  Hingham  meeting-house  comes  nearer  to  the 
idea  of  Puritan  architecture  than  the  doctrines  preached  in  it  to 
day  clo  to  Puritan  theology  ;  that  follows  because,  ever  since  the 
pastorate  of  the  Rev.  Ebenezer  Gay,  the  church  has  practically 
been  Unitarian,  though  in  his  clay  it  was  merely  called  liberal ; 

but    one    can     easily    count     over    on    one's    finders     the     number    of 
j  <^> 

those    old    Congregational    churches,    which,    through    all    the    thick 

o        o  o 

and  thin  theological  upheavals  from  that  time  to  this,  have  held 
fast  to  their  ancient  tenets.  How  those  old  divines,  of  the 
Mather  School,  would  have  stared,  to  be  sure,  at  seeing  their 
very  pulpits  become  so  many  focal  points  for  disseminating 
what  they  would  have  thought  the  rankest  heresy !  This  Dr. 


HO  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

Ebenezer  Gay,  by  the  by,  who  preached  here  for  sixty-nine  years 
(1718-1787)  has  been  called  the  forerunner  of  Charming.  By 
all  accounts  he  was  a  large-minded,  large-hearted  man,  a  deep 
thinker  and  an  eloquent  pulpit  orator.  John  Adams,  who  was 
a  great  admirer  of  Dr.  Gay,  and  often  went  to  hear  him  preach, 
has  left  a  record  of  who  and  what  constituted  this  liberal  wing 
of  the  church  —  unorthodox  it  was  called  —  so  lonof  a^o  as 

o  o 

1750,  by  which  we  infer  —  and  are  surprised  to  find  it  so - 
that  the  leaven  was  actively  working  at  a  period  much  earlier 
than  is  generally  supposed.  Writing  in  1815  he  says:  ''Sixty- 
five  years  ago  my  own  minister,  Rev.  Lemuel  Bryant ;  Dr. 
Mayhew  of  the  West  Church  in  Boston ;  Rev.  Mr.  Shute 
of  Hingham  ;  Rev.  John  Brown  of  Cohasset  ;  and  perhaps  equal 
to  all,  if  not  above  all,  Rev.  Mr.  Gay  of  Hingham,  were  Uni 
tarians." 

It  is  a  most  noteworthy  fact,  that  down  to,  and  including, 
the  pastorate  of  the  Rev.  H.  Price  Collier,  there  had  been  but 
eight  ministers  in  a  period  of  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  settled  here,  in  this  house. 

My  curiosity  was  at  length  gratified  by  an  inspection  of  the  interior 
of  the  meeting-house.  It  had  but  recently  undergone  sweeping  alter 
ations.  Formerly  the  whole  inside  space  from  floor  to  belfry  was 
open  ;  but  considerations  of  personal  comfort  at  length  induced  the 
construction  of  a  ceiling,  by  which  the  view  of  the  loft  overhead  was 
shut  out.  They  said  it  was  not  possible  to  heat  the  building  properly 
in  the  coldest  weather  —  when,  for  instance,  the  tone  was  taken  out 
of  the  bell  by  the  intensity  of  the  cold  —  without  doing  this ;  and 
that  brings  to  mind  the  fact  that  still  earlier  worshippers  must  have 
sat  there,  year  in,  year  out,  in  winter  too,  without  fire.  Stoves  for 
heating  were  unknown,  and  we  come  clown  to  a  period  compara 
tively  recent  when  the  wealthier  sort  of  people  carried  foot-stoves 
to  meeting.  I  admit  that  I  should  have  liked  the  house  better  in 
its  primitive  form ;  for  the  massive  white-oak  roof-frame  is  by  far 


THE    OLD    SHIP  III 

too  unique  a  piece  of  joiner-work  to  be  thus  hicl  away  out  of  sight. 
From  all  appearance  it  might  have  been,  perhaps  was,  put  together 
by  shipwrights  instead  of  housewrights  —  by  men  handier  with  the 
broadaxe  and  adze  than  with  the  drawing-knife  and  plane.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  inside  and  out,  old  Hingham  Church  is  a  veritable  archi 
tectural  treasure.  When  once  he  got  thoroughly  warmed  up  —  a  not 
inconsequent  thing  in  cold  weather — how  the  preacher's  voice  must 
have  echoed  up  among  those  time-stained  rafters  !  and  what  a  chill 
its  gloomy  vastness  must  have  sent  to  the  very  marrow  of  wonderincr 
little  boys  as  often  as  the  minister's  warning  finger  pointed  that 
way ! 

There  was  a  high,  rich-looking  pulpit,  ascended  at  the  left  by 
railed-in  stairs,  relieved  by  hanging  draperies  at  the  back,  and  sur 
mounted  by  a  sounding-board,  a  common  enough  adjunct  of  those 
days,  though  now  seldom  seen  in  Protestant  churches.  It  did,  how 
ever,  give  a  decided  look  of  completeness  to  the  sacred  desk.  The 
pews  were  of  the  old-fashioned,  back-breaking  sort,  high  and  straight, 
so  that  the  sitter  had  to  sit  bolt  upright  during  sermon-time,  with 
no  prospect  whatever  of  taking  a  stolen  nap  between  whiles.  All 
the  pews  were  topped  by  a  tight  ornamental  rail,  which  gave  the 
interior  a  very  pretty  effect.  These  pews  were  being  torn  out,  and 
modern  ones  substituted,  better  adapted  for  repose.  There  was  a 
gallery,  too,  relieved  by  panels  —  a  whispering  gallery,  I  dare  say,  if 
the  truth  were  known.  In  all  respects  it  was  a  most  brave  old 
house,  where  many  pious  souls  had  doubtless  enjoyed  the  one  great 
consolation  of  their  lives,  and  from  which  they  went  forth  strength 
ened  and  refreshed  to  the  work  of  each  returning  week. 

Who  of  us  does  not  remember  the  throngs  that  once  filled  our 
streets  of  a  Sabbath  morning,  wending  their  way  to  meeting  ?  To 
stay  at  home  was  an  unpardonable  offence,  which  carried  with  it  a 
strange  sense  of  conscious  guilt.  And  the  queer-looking  vehicles,  too, 
that  erstwhile  filled  the  sheds  of  country  meeting-houses  to  overflow 
ing,  or  stood  hitched  to  the  nearest  trees  !  Where  are  they  now  ? 


112  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

The  thought   tempts  us  to  reproduce  some  lines  of  a  lament  for  the 
past,  written  by  some  disciple  of  Dr.   Holmes  :  - 

"  We  used  the  '  one-horse  shay,'  we  did, 

And  read  our  prayer-books  some; 
Our  preachers  talked  of  truth  and  grace, 
Instead  of  tweedledum.'' 

In  time  increase  of  population  called  for  more  room  so  loudly 
that  additions  were  twice  made,  once  in  1729,  once  in  1755,  by 
building"  on  fourteen  feet  at  each  end.  This  enlarged  the  house  to 
its  present  dimensions  of  seventy-three  feet  by  fifty-five  feet. 

It  was  not  on  account  of  its  religious  functions  alone  that  this 
was  done  ;  but,  as  is  well  known,  all  the  old  houses  of  worship  were 
used  for  town-meetings,  so  making  them  serve  in  a  double  capacity, 
both  secular  and  religious.  This  will  appear  the  less  objectionable 
to  those  who  may  think  such  use  a  desecration,  if  we  remember 
that  there  existed  the  strictest  union  between  the  two.  Church  and 
State  were,  in  fact,  one  under  Puritan  administration.  The  town 
took  care  of  the  church  as  respects  its  material  wants,  and  the 
church  of  the  town  as  respects  its  spiritual  wants.  They  were,  in 
fact,  but  one  body ;  so  that  a  town -meeting  not  unfrequently 
resolved  itself  into  a  church-meeting,  or  vice  versa. 

Still,  we  may  form  some  idea  of  what  the  interior  looked  like 
when  first  built.  There  was  a  gallery  running  round  on  three  sides 
-  nothing  else  to  hide  the  roughly-hewn  timbers  of  the  frame  from 
view.  Rough  benches  were  placed  on  the  floor  of  the  house  and  in 
the  galleries.  To  these  the  congregation  were  assigned  according 
to  age,  sex,  and  condition,  by  a  formal  vote.  For  instance,  we  have 
the  assignment  of  "  The  foreseate  for  the  men  on  the  North  side." 
"  In  the  second  seate  in  the  gallary  at  the  west  end  more  of  ye 
young  men."  "  The  second  seate  on  the  gallary  at  the  East  end  of 
the  house  for  ye  maids."  The  young  of  both  sexes,  we  observe, 
were  kept  as  far  apart  as  the  points  of  the  compass. 


THE    OLD   SHIP  113 

Referring  to  these  old  church  customs  we  find  it  was  a  universal 
practice  to  seat  males  and  females  apart,  and  that  married  women 
always  occupied  different  seats  from  the  unmarried.  What,  it  may  be 
asked,  would  be  the  result  of  an  attempt  to  separate  the  sexes  to-day 
in  this  arbitrary  way  in  any  but  a  Quaker  meeting  ?  But  we  must 
remember  that  whisperings,  stolen  glances,  or  meaning  smiles  were 
held  unseemly  in  a  Puritan  house  of  worship ;  and  that  a  culprit 
detected  in  such  out-of-place  proceedings  would  have  been  swiftly 
and  sharply  "  admonished,"  as  the  saying  went,  before  the  whole 
congregation  by  name.  It  has  not  been  handed  down,  so  far  as 
I  have  seen,  whether  the  congregation,  to  a  woman,  then  turned 
round  to  look  every  late-comer  out  of  countenance. 

The  deacons  also  occupied  a  seat  by  themselves,  and  the  only  pew 
this  house  at  one  time  boasted  was  reserved  for  the  minister's  use. 
In  fact,  pews  were  not  generally  introduced  much  earlier  than  a 
century  ago.  When  a  collection  was  taken  up  the  whole  congrega 
tion  rose  and  silently  marched  up  past  the  deacons'  seat,  each  person 
depositing  his  offering — which  was  not  unfrequently  a  paper  prom 
ise  to  pay — in  the  bag  or  box  held  out  in  the  deacons'  hands. 
They  then  filed  back  to  their  own  seats.  In  this  way  no  one  could 
evade  a  contribution.  It  was  something  like  the  modern  parish 
priest,  standing  at  the  church  door,  box  in  hand,  as  the  congregation 
goes  out.  An  amusing  procession  it  must  have  seemed,  as  it  passed 
down  the  broad  aisle,  where  all  were  obliged  to  duck  their  heads  or 
put  aside  with  their  hands  the  bell-rope,  which  hung  down  exactly  in 
the  middle  of  the  house. 

When  there  were  few  hymn-books,  a  deacon  would  rise  in  his 
seat,  clear  his  throat,  and  read  off  very  slowly  the  first  line  of  the 
selection  ;  and  after  this  had  been  sung  through  by  the  congregation 
he  would  repeat,  or  "  line  off,"  the  next.  This  practice  had  one  good 
effect,  at  least :  in  time  the  people  mostly  knew  the  psalms  and 
hymns  by  heart.  Devotional  singing  was  much  practised  at  home, 
too,  by  the  fireside  ;  in  fact,  sacred  music  was  about  all  the  young 


114  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

people  knew  or  could  hear  sung ;  so  it  was  a  part  of  the  service 
always  greatly  enjoyed  by  them. 

After  regular  singers  were  employed  in  the  churches,  and  this 
custom  only  came  in  gradually  with  their  growth  in  other  respects, 
a  row,  or  rows,  of  seats  were  assigned  to  the  singers,  at  or  near 
the  front  of  the  congregation.  When  they  rose  to  sing  they  faced 
each  other;  and  there  was  sometimes  a  partition  between  them,  on 
which  to  lay  their  hymn  and  tune  books.  The  leader  often  used  a 
pitch-pipe  in  giving  out  the  pitch,  after  which  came  the  preliminary 
humming,  or  snuffling,  from  base  to  treble,  through  which  final  har 
mony  was  secured.  Awkward  as  it  was,  we  fancy  that  even  this 
"tuning  up"  must  have  proved  an  acceptable  relief  to  a  two-hours' 
sermon. 

The  first  and  greatest  innovation  the  old  ways  suffered  was  the 
introduction  of  the  bass-viol.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  in 
dignation  with  which  some  of  the  older  church-members  looked 
upon  its  appearance  among  them.  In  their  minds  stringed  instru 
ments  had  been  always  associated  with  such  profane  amusements  as 
dancing,  stage-shows,  or  bear-baiting,  or  with  the  bacchanalian  rites 
of  heathen  gods.  No  good  could  possibly  come  of  it!  In  a  neigh 
boring  town,  at  the  first  premonitory  scrape,  one  old  man  rose  up 
and  walked  out,  saying  angrily  that  he  "  did  not  want  to  go  to  God's 
house  to  hear  a  big  fiddle."  In  fact,  sacred  music  was  then  held  in 
as  great  reverence  as  any  part  of  the  devotional  exercises  of  the 
Sabbath  —  so  much  so  that  if  a  psalm  happened  to  be  sung  out-of- 
doors  the  bystanders  would  remove  their  hats,  and  remain  uncov 
ered  until  the  singing  was  ended.  Psalms  and  hymns  were  not 
then  considered  appropriate  to  such  occasions  of  exuberant  jollity  as 
sleigh-rides  or  hay-rides,  or  after-dinner  sprees.  What  an  old  seven 
teenth  century  Puritan  would  have  said  to  a  full  orchestra  crashing 
out  his  favorite  Hundredth  Psalm  appalls  us  to  think  of! 

Upon  the  sacred  desk,  within  easy  reach  of  the  preacher's  right 
hand,  stood  the  hour-glass  —  funereal  symbol,  not  only  of  the  sands 


THE    OLD    SHIP  115 

of  life  run  out,  but  sole  indicator  to  the  congregation  of  the  lapse 
of  time.  I  need  not  suggest  whether  it  was  closely  watched  or  not. 
Although  the  minister,  who  every  week  stood  before  his  people 
endowed  with  a  personal  sanctity  which  our  practical  generation 
does  not  allow  to  any  one,  who  could  make  the  most  lawless  village 
ruffian  cower  and  slink  away  by  a  look,  who  presided  over  a  com 
munity  of  church-goers,  and  who  had  a  paternal  care  for  everything 
and  every  one  in  it,  has  passed  away,  we  will  not  compare  him  with 
his  more  fortunate  brother,  who  has  a  snug  balance  at  his  banker's, 
needs  a  year's  vacation  every  now  and  then  for  his  health  or  to 
take  a  run  through  Palestine,  and  who  has  a  rooted  aversion  to 
parochial  visits.  All  we  know  is  that  our  Puritan  ancestors,  whose 
numbers  were  few,  and  who  struggled  against  every  form  of  hard 
ship,  clung  close  to  their  God,  as  men  are  apt  to  do  in  seasons  of 
great  trial,  sorrow,  or  emergency. 

General  Benjamin  Lincoln,  of  Revolutionary  fame,  once  wor 
shipped  in  this  house,  and  in  his  declining  years  often  dozed  off  in 
sermon- time.  Many  of  the  family  name  still  live  in  Hingham. 
Behind  the  meeting-house  is  the  old  burial-ground,  the  invariable 
adjunct  to  all  our  older  houses  of  worship.  In  it  are  many  curious 
stones.  In  this  consecrated  ground  reposes  the  dust  of  Governor 
John  Albion  Andrew,  a  man  who  lived  in  a  great  epoch  of  our  his 
tory,  in  which  he  was  pre-eminently  fitted  to  stand  among  the  fore 
most,  for  he  was  a  power  among  men. 

In  the  commercial  world  towns  are  noted  only  for  some  leading 
industry,  as  Lynn  for  its  shoes,  Danvers  its  leather,  Westfield  its 
whips,  and  Hingham  its  wooden- ware.  In  the  time  of  Governor 
Andros,  Hingham  paid  its  taxes  in  milk-pails.  This  industry  is 
still  profitably  carried  on  there.  There  is  one  thing  more  :  it  is  said 
that  Hingham  is  the  only  place  in  New  England  where  the  lovely 
forget-me-not,  the  fleur-de-souvenance,  can  be  found  growing  wild. 
Her  ancient,  consecrated  church,  unique  souvenir  of  the  past,  is 
the  standing  injunction  of  older  generations  to  "  Forget  Me  Not." 


Il6  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Farewell,  then,  to  the  religious  home  of  honest  respectability 
and  simple  faith.  From  foundation  stone  to  vanishing  spire  it  holds 
for  us  the  idea  of  a  peculiar  consecration.  We  could  not  calmly 
look  on  and  see  this  house  turned  into  a  theatre  (we  have  such 
instances  in  mind),  or  into  a  variety  show,  or  a  coal-shed.  Ships 
max*  be  but  boards ;  but  we  can  never  accustom  ourselves  to  the 

J 

idea  that  churches  embody  no  more  —  that  the  Spirit  our  fathers  so 
often  invoked  does  not  abide  within  their  walls.  This  is  the  very 
place  to  take  our  spiritual  reckoning.  Even  the  hardest  materialism 
stands  abashed  before  this  precious  link  between  the  quick  and  the 
dead  of  so  many  generations.  Were  it  forever  after  to  remain  with 
closed  doors,  it  would  still  be  worth  its  weight  in  gold  for  the 
Christians  it  has  turned  out  and  the  souls  it  has  saved,  and  for  that 
other  fact  that  we  owe  all  we  are  to  those  principles  of  which  it  is 
perhaps  the  best  expression  of  all 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE 


THE   OLD    WITCH-HOUSE 

SALEM,    MASS. 

WHEN  you  go  to  Salem,  as  of  course  you  mean  to  do  some 
time  or  other,  by  all  means  enter  by  the  old  Boston  Road.  At 
your  left  is  Witch  Hill,  highest  of  all  the  neighboring  eminences, 
looming  darkly  up  at  the  town's  edge,  and  quite  well  covered  with 
buildings,  except  on  those  faces  where  the  hill  rises  so  steeply  up 
as  to  forbid  it  ;  for  in  truth  Witch  Hill  is  nothing  but  a  crag, 
isolated,  forlorn,  accursed.  You  are  surprised  at  this.  You  would 
have  the  place  disinherited  by  nature  and  avoided  by  man.  But 
the  fact  remains  that  it  is  inhabited,  and  that,  too,  in  spite  of  all  its 
horrible  associations  with  the  foulest  crime  that  has  ever  stained 
the  good  name  of  New  England. 

In  a  fit  of  ill-humor  nature  heaved  this  rock  above  the  sur 
rounding  level  as  a  thing  predestined  to  a  horrible  notoriety  among 
the  sons  of  men.  It  has  its  fatal  history.  If  nothing  happens  that 
is  not  foreordained,  then  this  infamous  rock  also  has  its  high, 
inscrutable  design.  Meanwhile,  I  am  fully  persuaded  that  all  Salem 
would  breathe  freer  if  on  some  dark  night,  when  all  the  Powers  of 
the  Air  were  holding  high  carnival, 

In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain," 

the  rock  should  be  found  to  have  sunk  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
Having  heard  that  there  was  once  an  old  house  on  the  hill 
which,  according  to  tradition,  had  been  built  of  timber  originally 
forming  part  of  the  first  house  of  public  worship  in  Salem,  I  looked 
for,  but  could  not  find  it.  There  was  an  odd  suggestion  in  the  fact, 
if  fact  it  be.  In  a  Catholic  country  a  memorial  church,  or  expiatory 


Ii8  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

chapel  at  least,  would  have  been  erected  on  the  spot  forthwith,  and 
its  lesson,  such  as  it  is,  sent  down  to  posterity  along"  with  its  pen 
ance,  more  or  less  sincere.  This  is  what  I  actually  saw  there. 

So  far  as  its  general  appearance  goes,  Witch  Hill  offers  no 
essential  difference  from  the  range  of  which  it  is  a  spur,  the  same 
we  see  drawing  away  from  the  coast  in  a  northerly  direction,  toward 
the  Merrimac,  except  that  it  is  Witch  Hill.  There  is,  however,  such 
a  weird,  such  a  horrible  fascination  about  the  spot,  from  the  moment 
we  identify  it,  that  for  the  life  of  us  we  can  see  nothing  else. 
With  this  feeling  uppermost  in  our  minds  the  actual  conditions,  as 
we  find  them,  are  singularly  incongruous.  We  can  think  of  it  only 
as  a  place  accursed.  Now,  what  do  we  see?  On  the  summit  there 
is  a  tolerably  level  area  of  several  acres  ;  the  soil,  however,  being  so 
thin  that  Old  Mother  Earth's  bare  ribs  show  through  the  holes  in 
her  scanty  garment.  Standing  here,  where  the  executions  for  witch 
craft  actually  took  place,  we  might  expect  a  blight  to  have  fallen 
on  the  field  of  blood.  Nevertheless,  a  hardy  pioneer,  whose  house 
stands  on  the  topmost  point  of  the  hill,  was,  at  the  time  of  my 
visit,  gathering  a  crop  of  excellent  turnips.  It  is  needless  to  add 
that  the  outlook,  embracing  as  it  does  a  varied  landscape,  is,  or 
rather  would  be,  totally  destructive  of  all  such  horrible  imaginings 
as  the  associations  of  the  spot  might  seem  to  call  up  in  us  if  only 
one  could  get  them  out  of  one's  mind.  But  we  have  come  here 
to  "  sup  full  of  horrors,"  and  we  are  not  to  be  disappointed  of  our 
expected  feast. 

Over  against  us  is  the  brown  old  town,  with  its  steeples  thrust 
heavenward  much  as  the  old  divines  would  have  pushed  their  way 
into  the  celestial  gates.  Staid,  thrifty,  and  a  world  to  itself,  Salem, 
you  would  say,  had  mostly  retired  from  active  business,  to  live  upon 
the  accumulations  of  the  past.  Here  now  runs  a  broad  street, 
shaded  by  fine  trees,  with  substantial  square  mansions,  not  built 
close  together,  but  standing  just  far  enough  apart  to  allow  a  bit  of 
orchard  or  a  pretty  garden-spot  to  nestle  among  this  wilderness  of 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE  119 

houses.  All  our  cities  were  once  like  that  —  a  streak  of  the  country 
and  a  streak  of  the  town.  Now  one  city  is  only  distinguishable 
from  another  by  what  nature  has  done  for  it,  not  man.  Yonder, 
again,  the  way  follows  along  the  inner  sweep  of  the  harbor,  where 
idle  wharves  and  dismantled  shipping  tell  their  own  story.  All  this 
we  can  see  from  Witch  Hill.  The  rest  we  can  imagine.  Taken 
altogether,  we  think  Salem  bears  a  strong  family  likeness  to  New 
port,  of  which  a  much  puzzled  and  no  less  delighted  traveller  once 
exclaimed:  "Well,  this  is  the  only  place  I  was  ever  in  where  they 
build  old  houses!"  Now,  with  back  to  the  town,  turn  your  looks 
toward  yonder  hills,  clothed,  mayhap,  in  their  rich  autumnal  tints, 
crowding  each  other  in  a  lawless  fashion  out  of  the  direct  road, 
pushing  this  way  and  that  way  with  lowered  and  shaggy  fronts,  like 
a  herd  of  monster  bisons  madly  making  off  from  advancing  civiliza 
tion.  A  few  miles  off  among  these  hills  nestles  the  identical  little 
village  where,  in  1692,  the  first  act  of  the  fearful  tragedy  began, 
whose  finale  was  enacted  on  the  spot  where  we  stand.  The  little 
cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  which  first  rose  above  that 
insignificant  village,  soon  overspread  all  the  land  with  desolation 
and  woe.  We  are  thus  following  its  loathsome  track  with  all  our 

o 

eyes. 

Having  taken  in  the  physical  bearings  of  this  dreadful  visitation, 
so  to  speak,  let  us  turn  for  a  while  to  some  of  its  moral  manifesta 
tions. 

Reluctant  witness  that  we  are,  the  incisive  question  must  at  last 
be  met.  But  we  could  not  forego  it  if  we  would,  nor  would  we  if  we 
could.  Yet  it  needs  the  added  evidence  of  locality  to  impress  the 
stern  fact  upon  us.  It  is  indispensable  to  say  that  "  This  is  the  very 
spot  where  a  score  of  men  and  women,  as  innocent  as  you  or  I,  suf 
fered  death  for  an  imaginary  crime "  -  otherwise  we  might  refuse 
to  believe  the  hideous  story. 

This  hill-top  of  dismal  memory  must  have  presented  a  scene  of 
awful  interest  on  that  momentous  July  day  in  1692.  If  we  cannot 


120  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

recall  it  without  a  shudder  now,  what  must  it  then  have  been  for 
those  poor  heart-broken  ones  who  were  being  dragged  to  execution 
here !  We  see  the  scaffold  erected  out  yonder.  We  see  that  the  cart 
containing  the  condemned,  closely  guarded,  has  traversed  the  route 
between  the  prison  and  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  is  now  toiling  its  slow 
way  to  the  top,  followed  by  muttered  execrations  from  those  in  whom 
hate  and  fear  struggle  for  mastery,  and  who  have  made  a  lane  for  the 
victims  to  pass  through  ;  but  those  who  are  about  to  die  heed  them 
not,  for  their  strained  and  haggard  looks  are  fixed  upon  one  single 
object --the  hangman's  noose  dangling  there  at  the  sport  of  the 
breeze.  Pale,  wan,  speechless,  they  seem  to  realize  that  their  doom  is 
at  hand.  The  sad  procession  has  at  length  wound  its  way  up  the  hill 
side  to  the  summit,  and  is  now  grouped  around  the  central  object, 
grotesque  yet  horrible  withal,  and  visible  far  and  near.  Here  are  the 
dignified  magistrates,  the  reverend  elders  too,  come  to  deepen  the 
unspeakable  agony  and  despair  of  the  victims  by  exhorting  them  to 
confess  that  of  which  they,  with  their  dying  breath,  persist  in  declaring 
their  innocence.  Whichever  way  they  turn  their  entreating  eyes  they 
meet  only  stern,  implacable,  or  averted  looks.  Here,  perhaps,  stand 
the  nearest  and  dearest  relatives  of  the  doomed  ones,  racked  with  the 
anguish  they  dare  not  show  ;  here  the  guards,  with  bent  brows  and 
set  looks,  closing  in  around  the  victims  a  hedge  of  steel.  The 
supreme  moment  comes  at  last  Now  the  sheriff  stands  forth.  In  a 
voice  he  vainly  tries  to  render  firm  he  reads  the  warrant ;  he  then 
replaces  the  paper  in  his  belt.  His  last  words  die  away  in  the  hush  of 
intense,  of  awful  expectation.  Does  he  look  around  him,  upon  that 
breathless  multitude,  as  if  conscious  of  a  duty  well  performed,  or  is  he 
seeking  support  there  for  his  faltering  soul  ?  One  by  one  the  con 
demned  are  assisted  to  alight.  One  by  one  they  are  pinioned  and 
blindfolded.  Now  the  hangman  conducts  them  to  the  foot  of  the 
fatal  ladder.  The  halter  is  put  round  their  necks.  A  shudder  runs 
through  the  breathless  throng.  Short  space  is  given  for  prayer ; 
since,  unless  they  confess,  they  are  to  be  denied  even  the  ministrations 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE  12 1 

of  religion.  Must  they  then  die  rejected  both  of  God  and  men  ? 
Must  they  die  as  the  fool  dieth  ?  It  is  even  so.  Martyrs  to  truth, 
there  is  no  mercy  here  below  !  Their  crisped  lips  move  : 

"  It  is  a  witch's  prayer, 
And  may  Heaven  read  it  backwards ! " 

tears  trickle  down  their  cheeks,  a  great  sob  rises  in  their  throats,  one 
horrid  push,  and  all  is  over.  Hanged  until  dead,  dead,  dead  !  So 
says  the  warrant.  Judicial  murder  has  been  done,  and  the  awed  as 
sembly  silently  separates.  I  do  not  think  there  ever  have  been  more 
heroic  deaths.  Something  rises  in  our  throat  as  we  tell  the  tale. 

Still  another  just  such  scene  took  place  here  in  the  following 
September.  On  this  clay,  in  particular,  the  Rev.  Nicholas  Noyes 
appears  to  have  revelled  in  the  agonies  of  the  condemned.  Said 
he,— 

"  What  a  sad  thing  it  is  to  see  eight  firebrands  of  hell  hanging 
there  !  " 

One  poor  woman,  whose  last  moments  he  imbittered  by  telling 
her  that  she  was  a  witch,  and  knew  it,  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"  You  are  a  liar!  "  she  retorted;  "  I'm  no  more  a  witch  than  you 
are  a  wizard  ;  and  if  you  take  away  my  life,  God  will  give  you  blood 
to  drink  !  " 

The  novelist,  Hawthorne,  has  made  an  effective  use  of  this  retort 
in  his  "  House  of  the  Seven  Gables." 

Enough,  and  more  than  enough,  of  Witch   Hill. 

Yet  another  visible  memorial  of  these  terrible  events  is  the  Old 
Witch-House,  so  called,  still  standing  at  the  corner  of  North  and 
Essex  Streets,  in  Salem.  It  is  much  visited  by  the  morbidly  curious. 
Originally  its  architecture  was  notably  like  that  of  many  old  houses 
still  to  be  seen  in  Southwark,  and  some  other  quarters  of  Old  London, 
some  fifty  years  ago  ;  now,  sad  to  say,  very  little  of  that  original  appear 
ance  is  left.  This  is  the  more  to  be  regretted,  because  we  have  not 
one  single  specimen  of  the  sort  remaining.  It  was  really  very  quaint 


122 


OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 


and  decidedly  not  unpicturesque,  and  the  notion  of  anything  pictu 
resque  associated  with  a  Puritan  home  of  the  seventeenth  century 
will  be  new  to  most  people.  So  much  the  more  is  the  loss  of  the 
evidence  to  be  regretted. 

\Ye  are  told,  and    believe,   that    this    house  was    the    dwelling  of 
Roger  Williams  in    1635-36,  when  he  was  preaching  here  in  Salem; 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE. 


yet  not  even  so  interesting  a  circumstance  as  that  can  charm  our 
thoughts  away  from  the  greater  attractions  derived  from  traditional 
association  with  the  Imp  of  Darkness,  — 


Here's  metal  more  attractive." 


What  the  house  was  like  when  honest  Roger  Williams  said  grace 
and  broke  bread  in  it  is  not  so  clearly  made  out  ;  since  the  wants 
of  later  proprietors,  or  its  own  increasing  decrepitude,  have  at  dif 
ferent  periods  turned  its  exterior  into  a  gaunt  and  wholly  unat- 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE  123 

tractive  structure ;  so  that,  taking  it  as  we  find  it,  and  not  as  our 
imagination  has  pictured  it,  we  have  to  admit  that  it  is  wholly 
dependent  on  its  ancient  associations  for  being  the  one  peculiar 
point  of  attraction  to  which  the  stranger's  footsteps  naturally  tend. 
This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  disappointing.  However,  from  the 
recessed  area  at  the  back  we  get  a  glimpse  of  its  irregular  outlines, 
narrow  casements,  and  excrescent  stairways,  thus  turning  the  tables, 
as  it  were,  on  the  iconoclasts.  Wholesale  alterations  were  necessary 
so  long  ago  as  1674—75,  when  this  house  became  the  property  of 
Jonathan  Corwin,  of  witchcraft  notoriety.  The  old  chimney-stack 
was  pulled  down  and  a  new  one  built.  In  1746,  and  again  about 
1772,  it  underwent  other  repairs,  which  left  it  much  as  it  now 
appears. 

Prior  to  the  second  series  of  repairs  the  house  was  remarkable 
for  its  peaked  gables  topped  out  with  pineapples  carved  in  wood, 
its  successive  overhanging  stories  giving  the  idea  of  a  smaller  struc 
ture  upon  which  larger  ones  had  been  superposed  without  regard  to 
the  unity  of  the  whole,  or  the  evident  appearance  which  the  lower 
and  lesser  segment  had  of  being  crushed  beneath  the  weight  it  was 
compelled  to  bear  up.  Narrow  lattices,  formed  of  little  lozenge- 
shaped  panes  set  in  leaden  sashes,  comported  well  with  the  antique 
ensemble,  until,  in  an  evil  hour,  the  proprietor  substituted  modern 
windows,  which,  in  their  turn,  also  became  too  small.  In  short,  we 
have  here  the  stage  arranged  for  two  centuries  ago,  the  action  to 
be  whatever  your  imagination  is  capable  of. 

The  interior  of  the  older  part  is  supported  by  a  massive  oaken 
frame,  rudely  shaped  with  the  adze,  and  standing  out  from  the  walls 

and  ceiling  like  the  ribs  of  a  vessel.     The  interstices  of  the  western 
& 

wall  are  filled  with  brick,  plastered  with  clay  mortar,  in  the  homely 
phrase  of  that  day  called  "  daub."  Somewhere  in  the  manuscript 
chaos  I  have  met  with  this  item  :  "  Paid  ten  shillings  for  daubing 
the  meeting-house."  To-day  that  expression  would  have  a  quite 
different  meaning.  The  occupant  told  me  that,  in  winter,  the  older 


124  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

rooms  are  scarcely  habitable,  as  the  wind  searched  out  every  crack 
and  crevice  where  this  primitive  plaster  has  crumbled  away. 

Jonathan  Corwin,  or  Curwen  as  the  name  was  often  spelled, 
was  made  a  councillor  under  the  new  charter  granted  by  King  Wil 
liam,  in  1692,  to  Massachusetts.  The  charter  conferred  the  powers 
of  civil  government,  but,  for  the  first  time,  separated  the  legislative 
from  the  judicial  authority.  Corwin  was  one  of  the  justices  who 
issued  the  warrants,  and  before  whom  the  preliminary  examinations 
were  held,  both  at  Salem  Village  and  in  Salem  Town.  Family  tradi 
tion  assigns  the  south-east  lower  room  in  Corwin's  house  as  the 
scene  of  some  of  these  proceedings. 

A  sample  of  one  of  these  examinations  will  best  serve  to  show 
how  they  were  conducted :  not  upon  the  broad  legal  principle  of 
presuming  the  prisoner  innocent  until  proved  guilty,  but  upon  that 
of  guilt  presumed ;  and  how  every  art  was  used  to  entrap  the 
accused  person  into  making  some  damaging  disclosure.  In  this 
case  the  prisoner,  Susanna  Martin,  was  said  to  have  struck  down 
the  afflicted  people  at  her  feet  by  merely  casting  her  eye  upon 
them,  in  the  magistrate's  presence  ;  so  he  asks  her  :  — 

"Pray,  what  hurts  these  people?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"But  what  do  you  think  ails  them?" 

"  I  don't  desire  to  spend  my  judgment  upon  it.  " 

"Don't  you  think  they  are  bewitched?" 

"  No  ;   I  do  not  think  they  are." 

"Tell  us  your  thoughts  about  them,  then." 

"No:  my  thoughts  are  my  own  when  they  are  in;  but  when 
they  are  out,  they  are  another's.  Their  Master" 

Magistrate  interrupting,  "Their  Master?  Who  do  you  think  is 
their  master  ?  " 

"If  they  be  dealing  in  the  Black  Art,  you  may  know  as  well  as  I." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  done  towards  this  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all." 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE  125 

"Why,   'tis  you,  or  your  appearance." 

"  I  cannot  help  it." 

"Is  it  not  your  Master?  How  comes  your  appearance  to  hurt 
these  ? " 

"How  do  I   know?     He   that  appeared   in  the  shape  of  Samuel, 
a  glorified  saint,   may  appear  in  any  one's   shape." 
*      This  woman  was  handed. 

o 

In  its  every  phase  this  incredible  frenzy  simply  amazes  and  con 
founds  us.  It  unsettles  our  philosophy.  In  the  first  place,  the 
belief  in  witchcraft,  as  well  by  the  rich  and  intelligent  as  by  the 
poor  and  ignorant,  is  a  hideous  fact.  It  will  not  down  at  our  bid 
ding.  The  whole  Christian  world  believed  it.  Then,  again,  our 
horror  at  these  iniquitous  proceedings  is  greatly  enhanced  at  the 
accusation  by  mere  children  of  grown-up  men  and  women,  children 
sometimes  even  accusing  their  own  parents.  But  it  culminates  at 
the  confessions  of  guilt,  torn  from  them  probably  by  abject  fear  of 
death,  made  by  persons  lying  under  accusation,  that  they  were  actu 
ally  witches,  —  had  rode  to  witch  meetings  on  a  pole,  had  written 
their  names  in  Satan's  book,  had  pinched,  bitten,  or  tormented  this 
or  that  object  of  their  diabolical  malevolence,  —  and  so  by  this  most 
horrible  perjury  had  furnished  the  one  damning  proof  that  was 
before  lacking ;  namely,  actual  knowledge  of,  and  participation  in, 
witchcraft. 

Of  this  repulsive  chapter  of  history  one  disquieting  reflection 
must  always  remain.  It  is  this :  Even  the  court  which  condemned 
the  unfortunate  suspects  had  no  legal  existence  whatever.  The  Prov 
ince  charter  did  not  empower  the  governor  to  appoint  such  a  court 
as  was  constituted  by  him  to  try  the  witchcraft  cases  ;  so  that  twenty 
persons  were  executed,  an  unknown  number  died  in  prison,  and 
hundreds  languished  there  for  an  imaginary  crime,  at  the  instance 
of  an  illegal  tribunal. 

It  may  be  necessary  to  remind  the  reader  that  this  outbreak  at 
Salem  was  not  a  solitary  instance  of  superstition  run  mad.  The 


126  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

first  execution  for  witchcraft  in  Massachusetts  was  that  of  Margaret 
Jones,  in  1648.  This  woman's  case  I  have  found  commented 
upon  in  a  rare  little  treatise  by  Rev.  John  Hale  of  Beverly,  printed 
in  Boston  in  1702,  and  written  in  justification  of  the  acts  of  1692, 
in  which  he  bore  a  quite  prominent  part.  Hale  says  that  he  visited 
Margaret  Jones  on  the  day  of  her  execution,  in  company  with  some 
of  her  neighbors,  who  took  great  pains  to  bring  her  to  confession  ; 
but  notwithstanding  all  their  importunities  the  poor  creature  con 
stantly  asserted  her  innocence.  They  then  asked  her  if  she  had 
not  been  guilty  of  stealing  many  years  ago,  which  she  admitted  was 
true,  but  very  earnestly  declared  that  she  had  long  ago  repented, 
and  believed  Christ  had  pardoned  her ;  but,  as  for  witchcraft,  she 
was  wholly  free  from  it.  And  so  she  died.  Mrs.  Jones  was  a  phy 
sician,  and  \vas  charged  with  having  a  malignant  touch. 

What  passes  in  our  clay  for  jugglery,  healing  by  clairvoyance, 
or  spiritualism,  would  have  been  a  hanging  affair  in  1692.  The 
performances  of  the  Davenport  brothers  were  almost  identical  with 
those  of  a  bewitched  person  as  related  by  Cotton  Mather  in  that 
remarkable  book,  "  Wonders  of  the  Invisible  World."  It  is  there 
stated  that  durino;  Martha  Carrier's  trial  "  one  Susanna  Sheldon,  in 

o 

open  court,  had  her  hands  unaccountably  ty'd  together  with  a  wheel- 
band,  so  fast  that  without  cutting  it  could  not  be  loosed  ;  it  was  done 
by  a  spectre  ;  and  the  sufferer  affirmed  it  was  the  prisoner." 

Are  we  really  as  little  superstitious  as  we  think  we  are  ?  Sev 
eral  cases  of  haunted  houses  have  been  seriously  related  in  the 
newspapers  within  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  more  sparsely  settled 
country  villages  the  reign  of  popular  superstition  is  by  no  means 
ended.  On  the  seacoast  much  ancient  folk-lore  remains  firmly 
rooted.  Most  great  men  have  been  superstitious.  Passing  by  King 
James  I.,  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  thoroughgoing  believer.  Napoleon  had 
his  warnings.  Marie  Antoinette  declared  that  at  her  wedding  she 
had  a  presentiment  that  she  was  signing  her  death-warrant,  and  would 
have  drawn  back  if  her  pride  had  not  prevented  it.  Walter  Scott 


THE    OLD    WITCH-HOUSE  127 

believed  in  second-sight ;  so  did  Johnson.  Rousseau  tried  whether 
he  would  be  damned  or  not  by  aiming  at  a  tree  with  a  stone. 
Goethe  trusted  to  the  chance  of  a  knife's  striking  the  water  to  know 
whether  some  undertaking  was  going  to  succeed.  Swift  placed  the 
success  of  his  life  on  the  chance  of  landing  a  trout  he  had  hooked. 

o 

Monk  Lewis  had  his  premonitions.  Lord  Byron  had  also  so  firm 
a  belief  in  unlucky  days  that  he  once  refused  to  be  introduced  to  a 
lady  because  it  was  Friday ;  and  he  would  never  pay  visits  on  this 
ill-omened  day.  But  why  extend  the  catalogue  ? 

A  delegation  of  Zuni  Indians,  while  visiting  this  city  some  years 
ago,  told  the  people  of  Salem  that  they  did  perfectly  right  in  hang 
ing  up  the  witches.  It  was  one  relic  of  barbarism  recognizing 
another. 


I2g  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


THE    COLLINS    HOUSE 

DANVERS,    MASS. 

ONE  bright  October  morning  the  railway  train  set  me  down  at 
the  station  in  Peabody,  Mass.  The  air  was  crisp,  bracing,  delicious. 
In  the  sky  there  was  the  faintest  blush  of  crimson  lingering 

''  Like  pale  rose-chaplets,  or  like  sapphire  mist." 

With  a  pair  of  good  feet  which  have  seldom  failed  me,  and  a  stout 
hickory  stick  for  a  companion,  I  could  well  afford  to  take  pity  on 
those  good  folk  who  either  drove,  or  were  driven  away,  in  their  car 
riages  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass.  At  any  rate,  here  I  was  in 
Peabody,  a  place  overflowing  with  memories  of  all  sorts,  as  one 
soon  learns  but  does  not  so  soon  forget. 

This  most  populous  offshoot  of  the  old  town  of  Danvers  is  joined 
on  to  Salem  by  a  continuously  built  street,  so  that  it  is  by  no  means 
easy  to  discover  when  you  have  left  the  one  and  entered  the  other. 
In  this  now  bustling  section  the  eminent  banker  and  philanthropist, 
George  Peabody,  was  born.  Since  1868  the  town  has  taken  his 
name. 

In  taking  a  survey  of  the  principal  street,  the  eye  quickly  falls 
on  the  monument,  erected  in  1835,  in  memory  of  the  valiant  min 
ute  men  of  Danvers,  who  fell,  fighting  for  their  country,  on  the 
Day  of  Lexington.  Near  this  monument  formerly  stood  the  old 
hostelry  known,  from  its  sign,  as  the  Bell  Tavern.  The  honest 
publican,  being  also  a  dealer  in  chocolate,  affixed  to  his  sign-post, 
underneath  the  bell,  a  board  inscribed  with  the  couplet  - 

"  Francis  Symonds  makes  and  sells 
The  best  of  chocolate,  also  shells.'5 


THE    COLLINS   HOUSE  129 

Here  also  the  patriot  troops,  on  their  way  from  Salem  to  Cam 
bridge,  in  1775,  halted  for  refreshment.  In  the  absence  of  an 
organized  commissariat,  the  commanding  officers  were,  in  those 
days,  usually  authorized  by  the  selectmen  of  the  towns  to  which 
they  belonged  to  refresh  their  men  at  the  inns  along  their  route. 
On  one  occasion,  when  there  was  not  time  to  call  the  selectmen  of 
Salem  together,  Timothy  Pickering  made  himself  personally  respon 
sible  for  the  refreshment  of  a  large  detachment,  marching  to  join 
the  Provincials.  The  "Bell"  was  also  for  some  time  the  residence 
of  Elizabeth  Whitman,  whose  singular  story,  under  the  fictitious 
name  of  Eliza  Wharton,  excited  the  sensibilities  of  thousands  a 
generation  or  two  ago.  In  this  house  she  died  ;  and  such  was  the 
morbid  desire  to  obtain  some  memento  of  her,  that  the  very  stones 
erected  over  her  grave  were  near  being  carried  away  piecemeal. 

Leather,  and  the  products  of  leather,  are  the  principal  industries 
here.  A  standing  toast  of  the  local  Crispins  was  to  this  effect : 
"  Danvers  —  may  she  have  all  the  women  in  the  country  to  shoe, 
and  the  men  to  boot !  " 

Every  New  England  town  has  its  library  ;  and  that  of  Peabody, 
enriched  by  the  sagacious  munificence  of  her  distinguished  son,  is 
more  than  usually  attractive.  As  in  duty  bound,  I  visited  the  Insti 
tute  he  founded,  not  so  much,  I  must  confess,  to  look  at  the  books, 
as  to  see  the  portrait  presented  to  Mr.  Peabody  by  Queen  Victoria. 

This  portrait  is  an  oval,  beautifully  painted  on  enamel  by  Tilt, 
and  is  encircled  with  golden  emblems,  the  crown  above,  the  Queen's 
cipher  below.  The  artist's  pencil  has  not  kept  pace,  though,  with 
the  waxing  years  of  his  subject  (if  a  queen  can  be  a  subject),  who 
might  have  sat  for  this  picture  twenty  years  earlier.  But  then  they 
say  that  women  and  pictures  should  never  be  dated.  It  is,  how 
ever,  in  all  respects  a  most  regal  gift.  The  gold  box  given  to  Mr. 
Peabody  by  the  city  of  London,  and  the  medal  struck  in  his  honor 
by  Congress,  are  also  deposited  here.  These  objects,  being  of  great 
intrinsic  value,  are-  placed  in  a  fire-proof  vault,  sunk  in  the  wall, 


130  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

and  covered  with  glass.  It  being  a  holiday  when  I  was  there,  an 
unbroken  line  of  visitors  constantly  passed  before  the  depository  of 
the  portrait,  until  it  appeared  as  if  "  the  majesty  or  England"  were 
holding  a  royal  levee  in  the  midst  of  a  republican  commonwealth. 
The  simplicity  of  the  queen's  attire,  there  being  no  insignia  other 
than  the  ribbon  and  star,  was  an  evident  disappointment  to  many, 
who  clearly  expected  to  see  her  decked  out  in  full  regalia;  with  a 
golden  crown  upon  her  brows  containing  the  "  inestimable  sapphire," 
and  a  sceptre  in  her  hand  —  so  unattractive  is  royalty  when  divested 
of  its  trappings. 

Greater  honors  were  paid  to  the  remains  of  George  Peabody, 
the  banker  philanthropist,  than  have  ever,  I  think,  been  vouchsafed 
to  any  American  who  has  chanced  to  die  within  the  dominions  of 
a  foreign  potentate.  They  now  rest  under  a  granite  sarcophagus 
in  Harmony  Grove  Cemetery,  the  Mount  Auburn  of  Salem.  It  was 
homage  well  bestowed.  This  was  a  man  not  for  a  clay,  but  for  all 
time. 

The  house  in  which  Nathaniel  Bowditch  lived  with  his  mother, 
when  a  child,  is  still  standing  in  Peabody,  near  the  road  to  Dan- 
versport.  From  the  windows  of  this  house  the  future  mathemati 
cian  obtained  those  glimpses  of  the  new  moon  that  filled  his  young 
mind  with  admiration  and  awe.  He  was,  however,  not  born  in  it, 
but  in  Salem. 

Following  the  same  wide  street  out  of  the  town,  we  shall  pres 
ently  reach  what  is  probably  the  most  famous  spot  in  Danvers,  if 
not  in  Essex  County,  and  for  a  variety  of  reasons.  It  is  here,  at 
the  junction  of  the  street  leading  from  Danvers  Centre  with  that 
from  Danvers  Plain,  that  we  encounter  the  mansion  which  forms 
the  subject  of  this  paper.  Here,  now,  is  a  house  which  I  warrant 
everybody  must  like,  since  it  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  later 
colonial  architecture  in  existence,  besides  being  essentially  different 
from  those  we  most  readily  call  to  mind.  Indeed,  it  is  such  a 
strikingly  handsome  old  house  that  every  passing  stranger  first  asks 


THE    COLLINS  HOUSE  13! 

whose  it  is,  and  then  what  it  is.      Let  us  try  to  give  to  both   ques 
tions  their  adequate  response. 

As  to  the  first  question,  the  mansion  has  been  for  many  years 
the  property  of  Mr.  Francis  Peabody,  who  now  lives  in  it,  and  who 
has  embellished  the  interior  with  rare  taste.  But  the  house  was 
already  old  and  renowned,  though  somewhat  fallen  into  neglect, 
before  he  moved  into  it.  To  those  who  can  remember  it  thirty  or 


THE    COLLINS    HOUSE,    DANVERS. 

forty  years  back  the  renovating  hand  is  everywhere  apparent.  But 
houses  with  a  history  are  much  better  appreciated  now  than  then. 
It  is  scarcely  thirty  years  since  the  Hancock  House  was  demolished, 
yet  we  feel  great  satisfaction  in  saying  that  such  a  piece  of  van 
dalism  would  be  impossible  to-day. 

As  to  what  the  house  is,  or  why  we  attach  so  much  importance 
to  its  preservation,  that  is  a  question  we  shall  crave  the  reader's 
leave  to  answer  at  more  length. 

o 


132  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  generally  known  as  the  Collins  House, 
from  its  having-  been  a  long  time  owned  and  occupied  by  Judge 
Benajah  Collins,  though  it  was  not  in  his  time  that  the  mansion 
acquired  its  title  to  lasting  importance,  or  its  distinctive  character  as 
a  public  memorial.  We  shall,  however,  call  it  the  Collins  House 
for  the  sake  of  ready  identification.  Names  of  least  significance 
frequently  become  fixed  through  long  use,  or  until  the  one  preg 
nant  with  meaning  has  been  forgotten.  It  is  so  in  this  case. 

o  o 

The  Collins  House,  then,  stands  on  part  of  a  tract  of  twenty 
acres,  formerly  laid  out  to  the  old  worthy  Governor  Endicott,  who 
was  by  no  means  averse  to  picking  up  eligible  parcels  of  land  here 
and  there  ;  but  it  is  not  of  him  that  we  wish  to  speak. 

Its  years  seem  to  sit  lightly  on  this  venerable  mansion,  for  to 
all  appearances  it  is  still  in  a  most  excellent  state  of  preservation. 
Standing  \vell  back  from  the  street,  with  tasteful  and  well-kept 
orouncls  between,  it  is  seen  to  the  best  advantage  ;  and,  as  we  have 

c5  O 

said,  not  only  is  it  sure  to  attract  notice,  as  being  something  very 
different  from  the  rank  and  file  of  old  houses  strewn  at  intervals 
along  this  highway,  but  happily,  also,  it  is  not  too  much  like  the 
still  more  frequent  popular  colonial  reproductions  of  to-day. 

This  is  the  house  built  shortly  before  the  Revolution  by  Robert 
Hooper,  a  merchant  of  Marbleheacl,  who  was  very  rich,  very  loyal, 
and,  to  say  the  least,  very  unfortunate.  His  wealth  had  so  grown 
with  years  of  business  prosperity  that  the  common  folk  called  him 
King  Hooper,  partly  because  he  lived  "  like  an  emperor  in  his  ex 
pense,"  partly  because  he  was  the  acknowledged  autocrat  of  his  village. 

As  shown  in  our  illustration,  the  mansion  is  of  two  stories, 
surmounted  by  a  gambrel  roof,  the  predecessor,  as  we  understand 
it,  of  the  picturesque,  but  now  generally  discarded  mansard.  This, 
again,  is  relieved  by  an  ornamental  balustrade  at  the  top.  It  is  a 
wooden  house,  with  the  front  done  in  panelling  so  as  to  look  like 
stone,  and  painted  a  cool  gray  so  as  further  to  favor  the  deception. 
Its  having  always  been  well  kept  up  makes  it  look  good  for  another 


THE    COLLINS  HOUSE  133 

century  at  least.  Alas  !  houses  outlast  us  poor  mortals  so  long  that 
they  almost  seem  rebuking  our  assumption  of  superiority  as  child 
ish.  It  is  like  the  discovery  of  some  new  planet  —  the  farther  off 
it  is  the  smaller  we  seem. 

Robert  Hooper  built  this  house  in  or  about  the  year  1770.  The 
exact  date  is  not  definitely  ascertained.  From  poverty  he  had 
raised  himself  to  affluence  through  trade.  From  small  beo-innino-s 

<-j  <^y  o 

he  had  worked  his  way  up  until  he  had  secured  a  monopoly  of  the 
fishing  business  of  Marblehead,  which,  before  the  Revolution,  was 
greater  than  that  of  any  port  in  the  colonies,  St.  John's,  perhaps, 
excepted.  He  bought  up  the  cargoes  of  fish  as  the  vessels  came  in, 
and  shipped  them  off  to  Mediterranean  ports,  where  they  brought 
silver  and  gold,  with  which  he  bought  goods  in  England  suited  for 
the  home  market,  on  which  there  was  another  profit.  In  five  years 
his  fortune  had  doubled  ;  in  ten,  trebled.  Having  solved  the  prob 
lem  of  getting  money,  he  now  turned  his  attention  to  that  other  one 
of  how  to  spend  it.  He  built  a  fine  house  at  Marblehead  ;  he  set 
up  a  chariot.  But  Marblehead  was  not  big  enough  for  him  in  his 
new  estate ;  so  he  came  out  to  Danvers  and  built  this  delightful 
country  house,  far  from  the  cramped  and  crooked  streets,  the  smell 
of  fish,  and  the  sound  of  the  archaic  jargon  of  Marblehead. 

Robert  Hooper's  social  position  seems  to  have  been  quite  se 
cure.  Had  his  political  position  been  equally  so,  there  would  have 
been  no  story  to  tell. 

Associated  with  this  house  is  an  incident  showing  clearly  and 
forcibly  how  the  timid  colonist  of  1774  became  the  most  obstinate 
of  rebels  a  little  later.  For  a  brief  time,  in  fact,  the  house  assumed 
an  official  character.  It  was  here  that  the  new  governor-general 
of  the  Province  first  began  to  part  with  some  of  his  illusions.  Let 
us  briefly  run  over  the  situation. 

Early  in  the  year  1774  an  Act  of  Parliament  shut  up  the  port 
of  Boston  to  commerce.  It  was  a  mean,  a  cowardly  act  thus  to 
visit  on  a  whole  people  the  offences  of  a  few.  It  was  meant  as  a 


134  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

punishment  for  the  destruction  of  the  tea  by  the  Bostonians  in  the 
preceding  year,  and  was  so  understood.  And  it  was  expected  to 
bring  them  penitently  to  their  knees. 

This  port-bill,  as  it  was  called,  quickly  received  the  royal  assent. 
The  ministry  tried  to  make  it  appear  only  as  a  local  affair ;  but 
underneath  were  seen  sticking  out  the  horns  and  hoofs  of  the  old 

o 

vexed  question  of  taxation  without  representation,  in  which  all  the 
colonies  had  an  equally  lively  interest.  However,  George  the  Third's 
German  blood  was  up.  There  was  to  be  no  more  trifling,  he  said. 
Those  rascally  Bostonians  should  be  chastised  if  it  took  every  sol 
dier  in  Great  Britain  to  do  it.  Grass  should  grow  in  their  streets  ; 
ships  should  rot  at  the  wharves  ;  the  rich  be  poor,  and  the  poor 
starve.  Thus  said  the  king. 

Once  embarked  upon  their  crusade  of  vengeance,  the  purblind 
ministry  did  not  stop  at  trifles  ;  not  they.  They  had  the  best  will  in 
the  world,  the  king  was  with  them  to  the  point  of  fanaticism,  and  they 
had  the  votes.  By  another  act,  at  a  single  stroke  nearly  every  vestige 
of  popular  sovereignty  was  shorn  out  of  the  charter  granted  by 
their  Majesties  William  and  Mary  ;  by  another  the  king's  governor 
was  fully  empowered  to  seize  and  send  home  to  England  for  trial  any 
person  whatsoever  who  should  be  indicted  for  a  capital  offence  - 
presumptive  treason,  of  course,  being  the  offence  uppermost  in  the 
minds  of  the  supple  framers  of  the  bill.  Troops  were  hurried  off 
to  Boston.  General  Thomas  Gage  was  appointed  military  governor 
with  extraordinary  powers  and  equally  great  expectations.  It  was 
evident  that  the  British  lion  had  been  aroused  at  last. 

When  copies  of  the  port-bill  arrived  here  the  measure  everywhere 
created  a  deep  and,  to  discerning  minds,  most  dangerous  feeling.  Men 
now  first  hinted  at  open  resistance.  In  Boston  the  bells  were  tolled. 
In  some  places  the  act  was  reprinted  upon  paper  surrounded  by  a 
black  border,  as  was  usual  upon  occasions  of  public  mourning ;  and  in 
this  form  it  was  cried  about  the  streets  under  the  name  of  a  "  bar 
barous,  cruel,  bloody,  and  inhuman  murder."  These  terms  strike  us 

x 


THE    COLLINS  HOUSE  135 

at  first  sight  as  somewhat  extravagant,  but  in  reality  they  were  hardly 
too  strong.  Were  it  possible  to  conceive  of  such  a  thing  as  the 
execution  of  a  city,  the  figure  would  be  quite  justified  by  the  fact; 
since  by  giving  its  inhabitants  the  alternative  of  leaving  or  starv 
ing —  the  taking  of  the  very  bread  out  of  their  mouths  being  the 
equivalent  —  the  same  end  would  be  reached  as  by  shutting  up  a 
prisoner  in  his  cell  without  food.  Apparently  there  were  not  half 
enough  adjectives  in  the  language  to  express  all  the  conflicting  feel 
ings  to  which  this  detestable  port-bill  had  given  birth.  While  the 
Whigs  cursed  and  swore  vengeance,  the  Tories  laughed  in  their 
sleeves.  Well  may  we  judge,  then,  with  what  eyes  the  king's  new 
governor  and  the  king's  beef-eaters  would  be  looked  upon  by  an 
angry,  discontented,  and  high-spirited  people,  or  whether,  with  bay 
onets  at  their  breasts,  they  would  be  found  more  tractable  than 
the  wild  bull  that  his  keepers  are  pricking  and  goading  to  make  him 
show  fight  against  his  will. 

Yet  the  most  unaccountable  infatuation  ruled  in  England.  Men 
could  get  up  in  Parliament  and  say  with  cold  assurance  that  there  would 
be  no  trouble  ;  that  the  more  you  wrung  a  Yankee's  nose  the  more  milk 
would  run  out  of  it!  Incredible  folly,  perpetuated  even  down  to  our 
own  times  !  How  this  feeling  had  grown  up  I  never  could  understand, 
for  there  were  men  on  that  floor  who  had  fought  on  the  same  fields 
with  the  men  whom  they  affected  so  much  to  despise  ;  yet  there  is 
little  reason  to  doubt  its  being  the  popular  impression  in  England. 

General  Thomas  Gage  had  received  the  King's  express  command 
to  hold  the  General  Court  of  the  Province  at  Salem  instead  of  at 
Boston,  as  the  custom  had  been.  Therefore,  when  the  court  convened 
at  Boston  as  usual,  the  governor  promptly  adjourned  it  to  Salem.  On 
the  ist  of  June,  Boston  was  closed  against  the  entry  of  all  shipping. 
Not  even  a  fishing-smack  could  bring  in  fresh  fish,  or  a  bale  of  hay 
cross  Charlestown  ferry.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  doors  of  the  custom 
house  were  locked  for  an  indefinite  period,  and  the  sun  of  that  event 
ful  day  went  clown  in  the  shadow  and  gloom  of  impending  revolution. 


136  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

It  were  easy  to  wax  eloquent  over  the  situation  of  a  busy  and 
prosperous  town  thus  suddenly  thrown  out  of  employment.  We  can 
almost  see  the  faces  of  the  people  :  see  how  they  looked  under  this 
enforced  and  ruinous  idleness  ;  how  they  scowled  at  the  sound  of  the 
drums  in  the  streets  ;  and  how  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  unwel 
come  soldiery  as  they  marched  past ;  how,  again,  each  look  and  pres 
sure  of  the  hand  came  to  have  a  peculiar  meaning  ;  and  how  powder 
and  lead  began  to  look  up  at  the  point  where  every  useful  thing  was 
a  drug  in  the  market. 

There  was  one  phase  of  this  embargo  worthy  of  being  pondered 
by  its  short-sighted  projectors.  The  Bostonians  now  had  nothing  to 
do  except  to  brood  over  their  wrongs,  to  nurse  their  wrath,  and  to 
invoke  vengeance  upon  their  persecutors.  To  become  conspirators 
was  only  one  step  farther  on. 

Salem  thus  became  by  force  of  events  the  official  capital  and  port 
of  entry  for  the  Province.  For  a  brief  season  it  was  also  to  be  the 
governor's  official  residence.  As  the  time  was  drawing  near  when  the 
General  Court  should  assemble,  General  Gage  himself  repaired  to 
Salem  ;  and  at  the  invitation  of  Robert  Hooper  he  took  up  his  resi 
dence  in  the  elegant  out-of-town  mansion  which  still  keeps  the  incident 
alive.  Here  he  could  enjoy  undisturbed  the  society  of  men  of  his 
own  way  of  thinking.  This  aristocratic  seclusion  suited  him  person 
ally,  and  it  suited  his  ideas  of  what  was  befitting  in  the  representative 
of  his  king.  Here  he  could  keep  the  populace  at  bay. 

It  now  remained  to  be  seen  what  the,  men  of  Massachusetts  would 
do  about  it ;  whether,  in  fact,  they  would  maintain  the  bold  stand  they 
had  taken,  or  whether,  as  General  Gage  had  told  King  George  III. 
when  taking  leave  of  him,  that  the  Americans  would  be  lions  while 
Englishmen  were  lambs,  and  lambs  if  they  were  lions.  General  Gage 
had  thus  disposed  of  the  whole  American  question  with  an  epigram. 

To  their  eternal  honor  the  people  of  Salem  sternly  refused  to 
sacrifice  principle  to  present  advantage.  They  would  not  stoop  so 
low  as  to  rise  on  the  ruins  of  a  commercial  rival,  whose  greatest  crime 


THE    COLLINS  HOUSE  137 

was  one  with  which  they  themselves  were  in  hearty  sympathy,  and  they 
would  not  remain  silent.  Their  loyalty  to  the  common  cause,  expressed 
with  no  uncertain  voice  under  his  very  nose,  both  surprised  and 
disgusted  the  governor,  who  had  confidently  counted  upon  a  very 
different  state  of  things.  As  in  all  the  large  towns,  so  here  there  were 
Tories  and  placemen  enough  to  form  a  little  party  of  their  own.  These 
were  now  swelling  with  importance  and  loyalty.  Almost  to  a  man 
these  partisans  favored  making  an  example  of  the  ringleaders  among 
the  patriots,  and  were  teasing  General  Gage  to  begin  ;  but  fortunately 
for  all  concerned,  Gage  was  one  of  the  procrastinating  sort.  He  was 
a  true  Fabius,  both  in  politics  and  in  the  field. 

Thus  the  attempt  to  play  off  Salem  against  Boston  ignomini- 
ously  failed. 

Events  hastened.  On  the  appointed  day  the  General  Court  met. 
It  was  much  like  a  kettle  simmering  on  the  fire.  A  little  more  fuel 
would  set  it  boiling.  Three  resolves  were  prepared  in  caucus,  im 
mediately  brought  in,  and  passed  with  closed  doors  before  the  Tories 
knew  what  their  opponents  were  about.  Samuel  Adams  was  the 
prime  mover  in  all  this.  One  resolve  appointed  five  delegates  to 
Philadelphia  (a  voluntary  tax  being  laid  to  defray  the  expense)  ; 
a  second  looked  to  assisting  the  suffering  people  of  Boston ;  and 
the  third  and  last  to  cutting  off  all  importations  of  British  goods. 
These  measures  were  calculated  to  push  things  with  a  vengeance. 
One  leaky  member,  who  managed  to  get  out  of  the  House  upon 
the  plea  of  illness,  straightway  ran  to  inform  the  first  royalist  he 
could  meet  with  that  the  House  was  bent  upon  revolution,  ruin, 
and  all  besides.  A  messenger  was  instantly  sent  off  to  the  gov 
ernor  at  Danvers.  He  determined  to  dissolve  the  General  Court 
before  it  should  do  more  mischief.  To  this  end  he  drew  up  a  hur 
ried  proclamation,  with  which  he  despatched  his  secretary  in  all 
haste  to  the  place  where  the  Court  was  sitting;  but  when  Mr.  Sec 
retary  Flucker  got  there  he  found  the  cloor  shut  in  his  face.  It  is 
said  that  Sam  Adams  had  put  the  key  in  his  own  pocket.  The 


138  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

secretary,  therefore,  was  forced  to  go  through  the  empty  form  of 
reading  the  proclamation  on  the  stairs,  in  the  presence  of  what  few 
idlers  had  gathered  about  him  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  something 
unusual  going  on. 

When  the  Court  had  quite  finished  its  business  it  adjourned 
itself.  This  was  the  last  General  Court  held  under  a  royal  gov 
ernor  in  the  old  Bay  Colony,  and  in  some  respects  the  most  mo 
mentous  one  in  all  her  history.  The  standard  of  revolt  was  raised. 
Obtuse  as  he  was,  General  Gage's  eyes  were  at  last  opened  to  the 
fact  that  there  were  among  the  despised  Yankees  men  of  the  very 
first  rank  as  respects  political  far-sightedness ;  men,  too,  who  having 
once  put  their  hand  to  the  plough  would  never  look  back.  Upon 
this  unwelcome  fact  he  no  doubt  sat  ruminating  here,  while  the 
members  of  the  Great  and  General  Court  were  quietly  dispersing 
to  their  homes  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  duty  well  performed,  joined 
to  that  of  having  circumvented  the  king's  governor. 

That  these  reflections  were  but  ill  calculated  to  soothe  a  troubled 
spirit,  or  pour  balm  upon  wounded  vanity,  must  readily  suggest 
itself  to  any  man's  mind.  The  governor-general  had  come  down 
here  to  assert  himself  after  the  veni,  vidi,  vici  fashion.  It  really 
began  to  dawn  upon  him,  obscurely,  that  perhaps  it  was  the  rebels 
who  had  got  in  the  last  word.  That  he,  a  British  general,  should 
ever  be  forced  to  measure  himself  with  tinkers  and  tailors  and  can 
dlestick-makers  must  have  been  gall  and  wormwood  to  him.  Not 
only  had  he  been  defied,  he  actually  had  been  out-generalled  by  a 
low  tax  collector,  familiarly  called  Sam  Adams.  It  was  enough  to 
drive  a  wise  man  frantic.  In  my  mind's  eye  I  can  see  the  governor 
now  walking  up  and  clown  that  very  orchard,  with  his  head  bent 
down  and  his  hands  tightly  clasped  behind  his  back,  like  the  little 
Corsican  at  St.  Helena.  He  is  inwardly  asking  himself  how  he  shall 
ever  tell  the  king  that  in  his  very  first  encounter  with  these  base 
churls  he  had  come  off  second  best. 

The  Great  and  General  Court  had  sat  but  eleven  days  ;   yet  the 


THE    COLLINS  HOUSE  139 

situation  does  not  seem  to  have  greatly  improved  with  its  disso 
lution,  because  we  find  two  companies  of  regulars  ordered  down  to 
Danvers  a  month  later.  That  step  indicates  to  our  mind  the  steady 
growth  of  a  very  alarming  sentiment  in  that  neighborhood.  The 
presence  of  so  small  a  force  was  certainly  less  a  menace  than  a  pre 
caution  ;  and  we  may  fairly  presume  that  the  governor-general  was 
becoming  somewhat  uneasy  on  the  score  of  his  personal  safety.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  redcoats  were  marched  into  a  large  field  over 
against  the  mansion,  since  occupied  by  Tapley's  brick-yards,  and 
there  pitched  their  tents,  kindled  their  camp-fires,  and  posted  their 
sentinels. 

This  was  like  adding  fuel  to  the  flame.  We  are  told  and  believe 
that,  in  general,  these  myrmidons  of  King  George  behaved  in  a 
peaceable  manner,  though  they  were  no  true  soldiers  if  they  did 
not  make  many  a  midnight  assault  on  the  orchards  and  hen-roosts 
of  the  surrounding  farms.  A  la  guerre,  comme  a  la  guerre.  Such, 
in  fact,  is  the  tradition.  But  the  knowledge  that  they  were  there 
to  overawe  the  people  could  not  fail  sooner  or  later  to  produce  its 
legitimate  results.  To  the  townsmen  a  redcoat  was  now  become 
the  badge  of  servitude  and  oppression,  and  these  headquarters  the 
hated  seat  of  a  despotic  ruler. 

Indeed,  the  signs  grew  so  alarming  that  General  Gage  shortly 
ordered  up  more  troops  to  Salem.  It  was  in  vain  that  this  or  that 
pretext  was  alleged  for  their  presence.  The  torrent  of  public  indig 
nation  could  not  be  stemmed,  or  a  collision  much  longer  averted. 
Very  soon  it  broke  forth  in  a  way  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis. 

In  New  England  every  community  was  and  is  a  little  republic. 
Ever  since  the  first  formation  of  civil  government  the  people  had 
been  accustomed  to  come  together  in  town  meeting,  there  to  dis 
cuss  all  matters  pertaining  to  the  public  weal.  It  was  not  only  a 
custom  sanctioned  by  long  usage,  but  it  was  considered  their  birth 
right.  All  this  had  now  been  swept  away  by  an  Act  of  Parliament, 
and  in  its  stead  was  substituted  the  will  of  a  military  ruler.  Per- 


140  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

haps  no  one  step  taken  by  the  ministry  came  so  near  home  to  the 
people  as  this.  It  was  putting  a  muzzle  upon  free  speech,  a  shackle 
upon  unity  of  action,  a  collar  upon  a  whole  people.  If  the  town- 
meeting"  could  be  suppressed,  then  the  rising  spirit  of  liberty  would 
be  struck  down  in  its  citadel  and  stronghold. 

In  disregard  of  this  monstrous  edict,  the  merchants,  freeholders, 
and  other  inhabitants  of  Salem,  were  summoned  to  meet  together  for 
the  purpose  of  considering  what  measures  should  be  taken  in  oppo 
sition  to  the  late  Acts  of  Parliament.  The  governor  instantly  issued 
his  proclamation  forbidding  the  assembly.  No  attention  being  paid 
to  the  proclamation,  a  company  of  soldiers  were  ordered  into  town 
to  disperse  the  meeting  ;  but  before  they  could  march  to  the  place 
where  it  \vas  being  held,  the  business  for  which  it  had  been  called 
was  finished,  and  the  people  had  quietly  dispersed.  Two  or  three 
arrests,  however,  were  made. 

So  far  cooler  counsels  had  prevailed.  From  this  moment,  how 
ever,  the  feelings  of  pent-up  exasperation  broke  through  all  restraint. 
General  Gage's  house  of  cards  was  toppling  over ;  the  General  Court 
had  defied  him ;  the  people  of  Salem  spit  upon  his  edicts.  His 
wavering  policy  disconcerted  the  bolder  Tories  and  correspondingly 
emboldened  the  patriots.  Threats  and  counter-threats  buzzed  about 
in  the  air,  were  tossed  to  and  fro,  and  hourly  familiarized  soldiers 
and  people  with  the  idea  that  these  mutual  defiances  were  only  the 
ominous  forerunners  of  more  deadly  messengers.  Each  watched  the 
other  closely.  Guards  were  doubled.  Upon  some  sudden  rumor 
the  whole  encampment  was  kept  under  arms  all  night.  Gage  him 
self  received  a  warning  of  sinister  import.  One  night  the  inmates 
of  the  mansion  heard  a  shot  outside.  At  the  same  instant  a  bullet 
came  crashing  through  the  front  door  —  was  it  mere  reckless  levity? 
Was  it  attempted  assassination  ? 

No  one  has  ever  accused  Thomas  Gage  of  being  a  physical 
coward.  But  if  the  crisis  was  become  alarming  here,  it  was  tenfold 
more  so  in  that  hotbed  of  rebellion  —  Boston.  Boston  was  assert- 


THE    COLLINS  HOUSE  141 

ing-  her  claim  still  to  be  the  capital  of  the  province,  by  showing 
herself  to  be  the  most  seditious  spot  of  ground  in  it.  Gage  had 
gayly  promised  to  give  them  toast  for  their  tea.  They  were  now 
making  faces  at  him  and  his  soldiers  at  every  street  corner.  With 
drawn  curtains,  in  old  lofts,  in  cobwebbed  garrets,  men  and  boys 
were  running  bullets,  cleaning  up  old  muskets,  making  cartridges, 
scraping  powder-horns,  sharpening  swords ;  in  grimy  cellars,  dark 
ened  back  rooms,  and  shady  passageways  they  were  dropping  in 
one  by  one  with  a  silent  grip  or  whispered  password.  This  was 
what  had  taken  the  place  of  the  town-meeting. 

But  General  Gage  had  also  received  peremptory  notice  to  quit 
Salem.  The  women  of  Marblehead  had  promised  to  come  over  and 
knock  his  soldiers  on  the  head  with  their  ladles.  We  are  told  by 
Gordon,  the  historian,  that  his  own  personal  safety  would  have  been 
endangered  had  not  the  prompt  exertions  of  Dr.  Samuel  Holten,  of 
Danvers,  himself  an  undoubted  Whig,  served  to  keep  in  check  the 
exasperation  of  his  neighbors.  Only  a  few  days  after  the  affair  of 
the  town-meeting  General  Gage  took  his  departure  from  the  Hooper 
mansion  a  wiser,  if  not  a  happier,  man  than  when  he  had  entered 
it  with  the  self-conscious  remark  that,  "  We  shall  soon  quell  all 
these  feelings,  and  govern  all  this,"  giving  a  comprehensive  sweep 
of  his  arm,  so  as  to  take  in  all  the  glorious  prospect  visible  from 
this  inviting  spot.  Self-deluded  general  that  he  was  !  in  more  quiet 
times  he  would  have  made  himself  a  general  favorite,  since  there 
was  nothing  of  the  military  despot  in  his  make-up,  but  to  come 
among  an  angry  and  excitable  people,  tendering  the  olive-branch  on 
the  point  of  a  bayonet,  showed  that  he,  too,  was  the  easy  dupe  of 
his  own  false  judgment  of  the  Americans,  like  his  royal  master. 

On  the  loth  of  September  the  detachment  of  royal  troops,  till 
then  stationed  at  Salem  Neck,  broke  up  their  camp,  and  took  up 
the  line  of  march  for  Boston.  Their  passage  through  the  town  was 
watched  in  angry  silence.  At  Danvers  the  two  companies  of  the 
64th,  which  had  been  acting  as  the  governor's  guard,  fell  in  behind 


H2  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

them,  and  all  turned  their  backs  upon  patriotic  Danvers  with  as 
hearty  good-will  as  that  with  which  the  inhabitants  saw  them  depart. 
Many  a  hot-blooded  youth  bitterly  regretted  that  he  could  not  have 
had  a  parting  shot  at  them.  But  the  wish  was  only  premature  ;  for 
within  a  few  short  months  these  same  despised  countrymen  were 
fighting  with  these  same  soldiers  face  to  face  on  the  Lexington 
road,  regardless  of  death  or  wounds.  How  they  acquitted  them 
selves  there  the  monument  erected  to  their  memory  at  Danvers 
bears  witness  to  this  clay. 

It  was  neatly  said  of  George  the  Third,  that  instead  of  goading 
his  American  subjects  into  rebellion,  he  would  have  shown  greater 
wisdom  by  removing  his  court,  family,  and  government  to  this  side 
of  the  ocean,  thus  leaving  Great  Britain,  as  the  lesser  country,  to 
shift  for  herself  as  a  colony. 

It  is  easily  seen  how  the  distinction  of  having  entertained  the 
king's  governor  became  for  Robert  Hooper  anything  but  a  source 
of  pleasure  after  the  fighting  began.  Even  a  public  recantation  of 
his  Toryism  could  not  restore  his  credit  with  the  indignant  people, 
if  it  could  save  his  property  from  confiscation.  His  business  was 
ruined  ;  his  fortune  seems  to  have  melted  away,  no  one  knows  how  ; 
and  in  the  end  he  died  a  poor  man,  after  having  disposed  of  his 
delightful  home,  and  left  the  scene  of  his  reverses  forever.  After 
the  decease  of  Judge  Collins  the  mansion  was  for  some  time  owned 
and  occupied  by  the  Rev.  P.  S.  Ten  Broeck,  grandson  of  the  dis 
tinguished  ^Revolutionary  general  of  the  same  name,  who  kept  a 
school  for  young  ladies  there.  As  an  aid  to  education,  it  is  a  whole 
corps  of  teachers  in  itself. 


BIRTHPLACE    OF   GENERAL    ISRAEL   PUTNAM  143 


BIRTHPLACE    OF  GENERAL   ISRAEL   PUTNAM 

DANVERS,    MASS. 

IN  Danvers  you  will  often  meet  with  the  nanje  of  Putnam. 
From  Danvers  it  has  spread  to  every  quarter  of  the  Union,  to  be 
everywhere  respected,  honored,  distinguished  in  every  walk  and 
calling-  of  life.  From  Danvers  started  the  first  wagon  train  for 
Marietta,  O.,  founded  by  a  Putnam.  He  was  but  following  in 
the  footsteps  of  an  ancestor  of  his  who  was  one  of  the  founders  of 
Danvers. 

This  was  John  Putnam,  to  whom  one  of  the  earliest  grants  was 
made.  In  rather  more  than  two  hundred  years  some  three  thou 
sand  five  hundred  descendants  could  trace  their  pedigree  back  to 
this  John. 

The  homestead  of  the  first  Putnam  has  become  widely  known 
of  late  years  as  Oak  Knoll,  the  preferred  residence  of  the  lamented 
poet  Whittier,  who  himself  pointed  out  to  me  John  Putnam's  grave. 
John  had  a  son  Thomas,  whose  son  Joseph  was  the  father  of  Gen 
eral  Israel  Putnam  of  the  Revolution. 

We  are  now  in  the  Old  Witch  neighborhood,  the  scene  of  our 
"  Reign  of  Terror"  in  1692. 

It  is  indeed  a  quiet  little  neighborhood  to  have  made  such  a 
noise  in  the  world.  Never  have  I  fallen  among  such  a  nest  of  old 
houses  of  the  earliest  types.  How  sombre  they  look,  after  all 
these  years  !  and  how  conscious  they  seem  of  the  secrets  lurking  in 
every  nook  and  corner  of  their  old  gray  walls  !  We  must  really  halt 
here  a  while,  for  this  is  one  of  those  spots  that  the  sentimental 
traveller  can  ill  afford  to  pass  heedlessly  by. 


1 44  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

The  old-travelled  highway  takes  its  course  through  the  village, 
furnishing  its  single  street,  and  then,  stretching  away  toward 
Andover,  disappears  among  the  hills.  Tis  there  our  way  lies. 
Through  this  artery  the  infection  spread  unchecked,  until,  as  we 
have  read,  there  were  forty  men  of  Andover  who  could  raise  the 
devil  as  well  as  any  astrologer.  Though  this  is  by  no  means  a  lost 
art  in  some  households,  it  is  not  now  attended  with  all  those  pains 
and  penalties  which  made  it  so  desperate  an  undertaking  in  that 
day.  In  ours  the  name  of  the  Evil  One  is  no  longer  used  to 
frighten  unruly  children,  or  his  personality  clothed  with  horns,  tail, 
and  cloven  feet.  Notre  diablc  est  toujours  a  la  mode. 

Step  by  step  we  pass  from  scene  to  scene.  The  present  meet 
ing-house  stands  quite  near  the  site  of  the  tunnel-roofed  structure 
of  1692,  with  belfry  and  all,  much  like  the  Old  Ship  at  Hingham. 
When  the  sexton  tolled  the  bell  he  had  to  take  his  stand  in  the 
middle  of  the  broad  aisle.  In  1692  that  bell  often  gave  out  its 
sound  of  fearful  import.  It  was  in  that  house  that  the  Rev.  Samuel 
Parris  preached  at  the  time  of  the  witchcraft  outbreak,  which,  strange 
to  say,  began  in  his  own  family  and  under  his  own  roof. 

In  that  old  meeting-house,  and  at  Deacon  Ingersoll's  hard  by, 
the  first  examinations  were  held.  A  little  farther  on  we  come  to 
the  ground  where  the  old  parsonage  with  the  lean-to  chamber,  in 
which  some  of  these  wicked  incantations  were  first  tried,  stood  so 
long  ago.  Some  traces  of  the  cellar  could  still  be  seen  ;  and  we 
were  told  that  some  relics  of  the  house  itself  were  used  in  the  barn 
and  outbuildings  of  the  Wadsworth  House,  which  was  built  in  1785, 
the  year  that  the  old  parsonage  was  torn  down.  In  Parris's  house, 
then  called  the  Ministry  House,  the  circle  of  young  people  met 
whose  horrible  denunciations  presently  worked  such  incalculable  mis 
chiefs  far  and  near.  Strange,  that  after  such  a  lapse  of  time  we 
should  still  feel  such  an  absorbing  interest  in  every  stick  and  stone 
in  any  way  associated  with  this  worst  of  calamities  !  We  are  drawn 
to  it  in  spite  of  ourselves,  and  we  turn  away  as  from  a  plague-spot. 


BIRTHPLACE    OF  GENERAL   ISRAEL   PUTNAM  145 

But  before  we  go  let  us  take  a  last  look  around.  Here  were 
the  homes  of  those  "  possessed  damosels,"  as  the  infatuated  insti 
gators  were  called,  and  of  the  self-deluded  or  self-exalted  dealers  in 
sorcery  :  of  Ann  Putnam,  for  instance,  a  child  only  twelve  years  old, 
whose  testimony  sent  so  many  to  the  scaffold ;  of  Rebecca  Nurse, 
seventy-one  years  old  and  one  of  the  salt  of  the  earth,  whom  even 
the  stern-browed  jury  could  not  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  condemn, 
and  so  pronounced  her  "  not  guilty,"  but  whom  the  implacable 
judge,  after  administering  a  stern  reproof  to  them,  finally  sent  to 
her  doom.  At  the  Farms  lived  Giles  Corey,  that  man  of  iron  who, 
knowing  full  well  the  fate  in  store  for  him,  stubbornly  refused  to 
plead,  and  under  the  old  English  law  was  condemned  to  the  " peine 
forte  et  dure,"  by  being  crushed  to  death  under  heavy  weights. 
This  is  not  tradition,  but  actual  fact.  Cotton  Mather  himself  con 
firms  it.  Calef,  too,  asserts  that  the  barbarous  sentence  was  car 
ried  out,  and  that  as  the  wretched  victim's  body  yielded  to  the 
increasing  pressure,  his  tongue  protruded,  and  was  thrust  back 
into  his  mouth  with  a  cane.  Poor  old  Corey  was  then  over  eighty 
years  old.  The  old  ballad  makes  the  sufferer  cry  out  in  his  agony,  — 

"  '  More  weight  !  '  now  said  this  wretched  man ; 

'  More  weight !  '  again  he  cryed  ; 
And  he  did  no  confession  make 
But  wickedly  he  dyed/' 

Except  the  sunken  cavity  in  the  turf,  the  Witch-Ground  now  shows 
no  evidence  of  former  habitation.  Garden  and  orchard  have  entirely 
disappeared.  In  a  corner,  however,  I  found  growing  a  bank  of  aro 
matic  thyme,  half  covered  with  dead  leaves.  Tis  best  so.  The  dead 
leaves  rustled  mournfully  as  I  turned  away 

"  Out,  damned  spot  —  out,   I  say." 

A  mile  beyond  we  ought  to  halt  at  the  house  in  which  Israel 
Putnam  was  born. 


146 


OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 


It  stands  at  the  junction  of  the  Newburyport  turnpike  with  the 
road  from  Salem  to  Andover,  and  is  about  six  miles  distant  from 
the  former  and  ten  from  the  latter  town. 

So  slight  is  the  attachment  for  locality  in  a  country  where  there 
is  no  hereditary  descent,  and  in  which  our  ambitious  youth  seem  fully 
to  have  imbibed  the  idea  expressed  by  Stephen  A.  Douglas  when  he 


BIRTHPLACE    OF    GENERAL    ISRAEL    PUTNAM,     DANVERS. 

said,  in  effect,  that  Vermont  was  a  good  State  to  be  born  in  provided 
you  left  it  early  enough,  that  it  is  not  common  to  find  homes  which 
have  been  continuously  occupied  by  five  generations  of  the  same 
family.  I  was  therefore  most  agreeably  surprised  to  find  the  old 
homestead  still  in  the  possession  of  the  Putnams.  It  is  formed  of 
two  structures,  belonging  to  very  different  periods,  the  more  modern 
part  having  been  built  as  late  as  the  year  1744,  while  the  original 
house  is  supposed  to  date  as  far  back  as  1650. 


BIRTHPLACE    OF   GENERAL   ISRAEL   PUTNAM  147 

In  all  probability,  when  sturdy  Thomas  Putnam  hewed  out  the 
rough  timbers  we  still  see  in  that  house,  the  whole  region  roundabout 
was  covered  with  a  shaggy  forest.  To-day  the  house  is  perhaps  the 
sole  remnant  of  that  forest.  But  what  an  appalling,  what  a  herculean 
task  lay  before  the  stout  yeoman  when  he  first  looked  around  him, 
axe  in  hand  !  How  slow  and  painful  the  steps  by  which  a  little  plant 
ing  ground  was  at  length  cleared  !  To  our  way  of  thinking,  the  great 
labor  involved  in  making  the  first  clearing  —  in  felling  trees,  burning 
brushwood,  picking  up  stones,  and  the  like  —  quite  explains  the  small 
dimensions  of  the  house.  What  could  wait  must  wait.  So  there  was 
just  room  enough  and  no  more. 

The  next  generation  could  take  things  in  a  more  leisurely  way,  yet 
the  work  went  on  after  the  same  vigorous  fashion.  What  Thomas 
Putnam  had  left  in  the  rough  his  sons,  set  themselves  to  smoothing 
over.  Thomas  had  raised  his  crops  of  corn  and  beans  among  the  thick 
set  stumps,  charred  logs,  and  big  bowlders  of  his  unsightly  clearing. 
It  took  nearly  a  generation  before  the  monster  old  stumps  could  be 
drawn  out  with  the  help  of  a  yoke  of  oxen,  and  dragged  away  to  the 
spot  where  new  walls  or  fences  were  to  be  built.  -Thomas's  stone 
heaps  and  bowlders  were  to  be  served  in  the  same  way.  From  sun  up 
to  sun  down,  with  axe,  pick,  and  bar,  Joseph  Putnam  and  his  boys  kept 
busy  the  echoes  of  this  securely  hidden  nook  in  one  ceaseless  combat 
with  the  obdurate  soil,  which  only  yielded  its  harvest  inch  by  inch. 
This  was  the  sort  of  school  in  which  the  boy  Israel  Putnam  was  born 
and  brought  up,  and  it  goes  very  far  toward  explaining  that  marvellous 
physical  activity  and  power  of  endurance  for  which  he  was  as  remark 
able  at  the  age  of  sixty  as  other  men  are  at  forty. 

Before  Israel  Putnam  was  born  as  many  as  twelve  separate  families 
of  Putnams  had  settled  in  this  vicinity  ;  so  that  in  due  time  it  came  to 
be  known  as  the  Putnam  neighborhood,  of  which  the  present  Putnam- 
ville  is  the  far-fetched  reminder. 

It  is,  even  now,  a  most  sequestered  neighborhood.  The  ancient 
house  nestles  down  in  a  hollow  amonq-  the  Essex  hills,  with  nothing 


148  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

to  break  in  upon  the  quiet  which  inlolcls  the  place  except  the  occa 
sional  and  discordant  shriek  of  a  locomotive  as  it  goes  rumbling 
along  its  iron  pathway  near  by.  Formerly  a  little  brook,  in  which 
the  boy  Putnam  may  often  have  angled  bareheaded  and  barefooted, 
trickled  noiselessly  along  through  the  neighboring  thickets  ;  but  the 
building  of  the  railway  has  since  turned  that  into  another  channel. 
A  willow  of  enormous  girth,  its  trunk  seamed  and  disfigured  by 
deep  cavities,  like  some  faithful  retainer  stricken  with  age  and  in 
firmities,  stands  sentinel  before  the  door.  Notwithstanding  the  long 
wrenching  of  the  elements,  the  tree  was  still  in  a  "  green  old  age," 
and  for  every  limb  reft  away  had  put  forth  a  dozen  new  shoots  in 
its  stead.  Half  a  mile  nearer  Salem,  there  is  a  quaint  old  house  in 
which  a  brother  of  the  general  lived.  General  Rufus  Putnam,  a  valu 
able  engineer  officer  of  the  Revolution,  and  one  of  the  pioneers  of  Ohio, 
lived  at  Sutton,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  place  of  Old  Put's  nativity. 

Of  course  I  made  haste  to  stand  within  the  chamber  in  which 
the  general  was  born.  It  is  a  cramped  little  affair,  with  rough-hewn 
posts  at  the  corners,  and  thick  projecting  beams  overhead.  It 
remains  just  as  it  was  when  the  eastern  sun  came  shining  through 
the  little  panes  to  greet  the  astonished  vision  of  young  Putnam's  baby 
eyes.  In  the  garret  the  rafters  still  show  fragments  of  bark  adhering  to 
them,  while  not  a  vestige  of  the  forest  from  which  they  were  cut  remains. 
A  stand  of  bullets  moulded  for  some  Frenchman  of  Montcalm's  day, 
and  an  old  hanger  such  as  was  worn  by  officers  prior  to  the  Revo 
lution,  wrere  among  the  few  souvenirs  remaining  in  the  house. 

Israel  Putnam  was  born  here  in    1718,  his  Grandfather  havinp-  been 

'  O  O 

the  first  immigrant  of  the  name  who  settled  in  Danvers.  After  his 
marriage  to  Sarah  Pope,  of  Salem,  he  removed  to  Pomfret,  Connec 
ticut,  when  he  was  twenty-one.  Every  stage  of  his  history  —  boy 
hood,  manhood,  and  mature  age  —  is  filled  with  incidents  illustrating 
his  activity,  courage,  and  address.  All  this  made  him  the  popular 
idol  of  his  day.  In  Danvers  they  still  relate  how  the  boy  Putnam 
overcame  a  ferocious  bull  he  had  been  sent  to  drive  home.  The 


BIRTHPLACE    OF  GENERAL   ISRAEL   PUTNAM  149 

animal  having  at  first  driven  him  from  the  pasture,  young  Put,  noth 
ing  daunted  by  a  first  rebuff,  got  a  pair  of  spurs,  put  them  on,  and 
returned  to  the  field,  where  he  gained  a  position  behind  a  large 
tree.  The  bull  again  attacked  him,  when  Putnam,  quickly  seizing 
his  bullship  by  the  tail,  sprung  lightly  upon  his  back.  Plunging  his 
sharp  rowels  in  the  sides  of  his  fiery  steed,  the  animal,  maddened 
with  rage  and  pain,  rushed  into  a  miry  part  of  the  field,  where  he 
stuck  fast,  and  soon  bellowed  for  mercy. 

In  pondering  the  story  of  the  Revolution,  --  its  trials  and  hard 
ships,  its  hopes  and  fears,  —  there  could  hardly  be  a  better  object- 
lesson  for  the  youth  of  to-day  than  this  very  plain- looking  dwelling 
presents.  It  has  been  the  cradle  of  a  man  of  the  people,  who 
raised  himself  to  a  high  station  by  sheer  force  of  his  own  natural 
powers.  These  humble  antecedents  forcibly  remind  us  that  the 
battle  was  fought  and  victory  won,  not  by  scholars  or  troubadours, 
but  by  the  great  agricultural  middle  class,  —  the  hard-handed  yeo 
manry,  used  to  digging  ditches  and  guiding  the  plough.  It  was 
they  who  formed  the  real  backbone  of  the  Revolution  ;  they  who  not 
only  filled  the  ranks,  but  led  them  to  the  field.  Who  were  the  suc 
cessful  generals  ?  Not  the  Lees,  the  Gateses,  or  St.  Clairs,  or  Con- 
ways, —  educated  soldiers  all, --but  the  Greenes,  Putnams,  Starks, 
Morgans,  and  Knoxes,  —  men  fresh  from  the  anvil,  the  plough,  or 
the  workshop  ;  the  first  in  the  field  and  last  out  of  it. 

"  He    dared    to    lead    where    any   dared    to    follow."      That    is    the 
soldier's  epitaph. 

In  seeking  for  some  flaw  in  this  plain,  blunt  soldier's  harness, 
his  critics  have  sometimes  pretended  that  he  was  illiterate.  And 
what  of  that  ?  As  a  specimen  of  good  terse  English,  however,  the 
following  note  may  serve  to  illustrate  that  fallacy :  — 

HEADQUARTERS,  yth  August,  1777. 

"  SIR,  —  Edmund  Palmer,  an  officer  in  the  enemy's  service,  was  taken  as  a  spy 
lurking  within  our  lines.  He  has  been  tried  as  a  spy,  condemned  as  a  spy,  and 
shall  be  executed  as  a  spy;  and  the  flag  is  ordered  to  depart  immediately. 

"ISRAEL  PUTNAM." 
"P.  S.  —  He  has  been  accordingly  hanged." 


150  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


THE    LAST   RESIDENCE    OF  JAMES    OTIS 

ANDOVER,    MASS. 

IN  a  retired  part  of  the  town  of  Andover,  Massachusetts,  there 
is  still  standing  the  old  farmhouse  which  was  the  asylum  of  the 
gifted  patriot  James  Otis,  after  his  mind  became  hopelessly  wrecked. 
It  is  about  two  miles  from  the  pretty  little  manufacturing  village  of 
Ballard  Vale,  and  not  more  than  four  from  the  Theological  Seminary. 
Here,  with  the  exception  of  a  short  lucid  interval,  which  served  to 
arouse  hopes  speedily  disappointed  by  a  relapse,  Otis  passed  the 
last  two  years  of  his  life  with  Captain  Isaac  Osgood,  a  well-to-do 
farmer  of  the  town.  When  this  period  had  nearly  expired,  his 
friends,  believing  him  entirely  recovered,  advised  his  return  to 
Boston ;  and  he  was  accordingly  brought  back  to  town  by  his 
nephew,  Harrison  Gray  Otis,  who  has  related  how  fascinated  he  was 
by  the  sparkle  and  wit  of  his  uncle's  conversation  during  their 
journey.  A  renewal  of  his  intercourse  with  his  old  friends  and 
associates  of  the  Revolutionary  clubs,  and  especially  with  Governor 
Hancock,  whose  dinner-parties  were  distinguished  for  their  conviv 
iality  and  late  hours,  soon  brought  on  a  relapse  of  his  malady.  He 
went  back  to  Andover  of  his  own  accord  ;  and  on  Friday  afternoon, 
May  23,  1783,  exactly  six  weeks  after  he  had  again  become  an 
inmate  of  the  Osgood  farmhouse,  a  stroke  of  lightning  laid  him 
dead  upon  the  threshold  of  the  house  in  which  he  was  already  as 
good  as  buried  from  the  world. 

Such  is,  in  brief,  the  story  of  the  deplorable  ending  of  a  life  of 
magnificent  promise,  —  a  life  which,  perhaps  more  than  any  other 
of  its  time,  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  true  genius.  When  such 


THE   LAST  RESIDENCE    OF  JAMES    OTIS  151 

a  life  as  that  is  actually  thrown  away,  we  almost  feel  as  if  something 
was  out  of  order  in  the  plan  of  the  universe. 

Whoever  may  have  had  occasion  to  go  on  such  a  search  as  mine, 
must  often   have    remarked  with  what    ease    the    places  where    oreat 

o 

men  have  once  lived  —  yes,  and  even  their  very  names  —  are  forgot 
ten.  Any  question  concerning  what  happened  longer  ago  than  yes 
terday  is  sure  to  startle  honest  Hodge  out  of  his  usual  dulness. 


THE    OSGOOD    FARMHOUSE,    ANDOVER,    MASS. 

One  man  looks  at  another.  Then  both  look  at  you  in  silent  aston 
ishment.  Finally  you  get  the  direction  you  want  and  walk  on, 
followed  by  that  same  vacant  stare  that  you  and  I  know  so  well. 

I  found  the  Osgood  farmhouse  no  exception  to  this  rule,  nor 
did  I  succeed  in  getting  properly  directed  until  I  chanced  upon  a 
villager  who  had  been  a  farm-hancl  on  the  place  more  than  seventy 
years  before.  He  spoke  of  "Jimmy"  Otis  as  familiarly  as  if  he  had 
been  on  terms  of  personal  intimacy  with  him,  and  glibly  told,  as  he 


152  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

walked  along  by  the  side  of  his  oxen,  such  little  scraps  of  family 
tradition  as  had  been  treasured  up  relative  to  one  of  the  most 
gifted  and  unfortunate  of  men. 

The  Osgood  farmhouse  is  just  such  a  quiet,  out-of-the-way 
nook  as  one  so  afflicted  as  Otis  was  would  wish  to  have  looked  up 
for  him,  especially  at  a  time  when  there  were  no  such  boons 
to  society  as  private  asylums  for  the  insane.  The  road,  as  you 
approach  it,  makes  a  wide  sweep,  the  capacious  barns  and  out 
buildings  being  upon  one  side  and  the  house  upon  the  other.  The 
residence  has  one  front  looking  down  the  road,  and  another  facing 
toward  the  south,  as  seen  in  the  illustration.  Before  the  door  on 
this  side  are  two  oak-trees,  the  one  nearest  the  house  being  much 
riven  by  lightning.  A  very  extensive  tract  of  open  land  extends 
on  all  sides. 

The  house  is  an  old  one  —  older  than  it  looks.  It  stands  in  a 
charming  situation,  where,  by  stepping  to  his  door,  the  owner  could 
look  out  over  all  his  broad  acres  at  a  glance.  Otis  himself  grew 
fond  of  it,  though  with  a  man  of  his  active  temperament  the  first 
gleam  of  a  returning  intelligence  was  a  signal  to  be  up  and  away. 
Yes,  the  place  is  singularly  peaceful ;  but  we  can  easily  realize  how 
a  man  who  had  ever  lived  in  the  world,  or  for  the  world,  might 
be  apt  to  compare  it  with  the  peace  of  the  tomb. 

It  does  sometimes  seem  as  if  Otis'  wandering  mind  now  and 
then  got  a  glimpse  into  futurity  itself.  With  plenty  to  eat,  and 
nothing  to  do,  he  grew  fat  and  lethargic  ;  but  just  as  soon  as  the 
muddy  stream  of  his  disordered  intellect  began  to  flow  clear  again, 
just  so  soon  he  was  both  mentally  and  physically  alert  as  of  old. 
On  the  very  day  after  his  return  to  Andover,  when  Mr.  Osgood 
came  to  call  him  to  dinner,  he  said  with  great  earnestness, 
"  Osgood,  if  I  die  while  I  am  in  your  house,  I  charge  you  to  have 
me  buried  under  these  trees "  (referring  to  those  under  which  they 
were  then  standing),  then  adding,  with  one  of  those  little  touches 
of  humor  that  occasionally  shone  forth  in  him  like  a  gleam  of  sun- 


THE   LAST  RESIDENCE    OF  JAMES    OTIS  153 

shine  from  out  a  darkened  sky,  "You  know  my  grave  would  over 
look  all  your  fields,  and  I  could  have  an  eye  upon  the  boys  and 
see  if  they  minded  their  work." 

I  found  the  house  nearly  as  bare  of  all  useful  information  as  the 
way  to  it.  How  much  I  would  have  given  for  a  few  minutes  with 
some  one  who  had  seen  and  could  appreciate  such  a  man  as  Otis  ! 
I  learned  that  he  was  very  fat,  a  great  gourmand,  and  "  Oh,  such  a 
funny  man ! "  I  was  shown  the  spot  where  he  stood  when  struck 
down.  To  paraphrase  an  old  saying  for  the  nonce,  I  have  learned 
that  in  pilgrimages  of  this  sort,  one  must  carry  his  information 
under  the  folds  of  his  mantle. 

Any  search  for  actual  memorials  of  this  most  unfortunate  of 
men  would  be  unavailing.  We  may  recover  only  a  few  details  con 
cerning  the  manner  of  his  death.  Otis  occupied  a  room  on  the 
left  of  the  entrance  as  we  see  it  in  the  engraving.  When  the  rapid 
gathering  of  heavy  clouds  seemed  to  presage  a  thunder-storm,  the 
family  were  collected  in  the  room  on  the  right  and  opposite  to  that 
of  Otis,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  door-post  unconcernedly  chat 
ting  with  the  group  within.  While  in  the  act  of  telling  a  story,  a 
tremendous  explosion  directly  overhead,  followed  by  a  blinding  flash, 
startled  the  listeners,  one  and  all ;  and  at  the  same  instant,  seeing 
Otis  stagger,  as  if  about  to  fall,  Jacob  Osgood  sprang  forward  to 
catch  him  in  his  arms.  The  doomed  man  never  spoke  again. 
All  efforts  to  resuscitate  him  were  vain.  He  had  died  on  the 
instant,  while  yet  speaking. 

None  other  of  the  seven  or  eight  persons  within  the  room  at 
the  time  were  in  the  least  injured.  The  storm  appeared  to  have 
spent  its  fury  in  this  single  death-dealing  bolt,  which  had  first 
struck  the  chimney-stack,  then  leaped  down  a  rafter  which  rested 
on  the  door-post  against  which  Otis  was  leaning,  splintering  the 
casing  of  the  door,  and  so  passed  on  down  to  the  ground. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  Otis  should  have  expressed  to 
his  own  sister,  Mercy  Warren,  a  wish  that  the  end  might  come  for 


154  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

him  in  this  very  way  —  a  wish  he  again  and  again  repeated.  "  My 
dear  sister,"  he  said,  after  his  mind  had  become  hopelessly  im 
paired,  44  I  hope  when  God  Almighty,  in  his  righteous  providence, 
shall  take  me  out  of  time  into  eternity,  that  it  will  be  by  a  flash 
of  lightning !  " 

As  the  life  was  brilliant,  so  the  end  was  highly  dramatic.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  get  out  of  my  mind  the  striking  coincidence 
there  was  between  John  Adams'  apt  characterization  of  Otis  as  "  a 
flame  of  fire,"  and  the  way  in  which  he  came  to  his  death. 

The  marks  left  in  its  passage  by  the  fatal  fluid  have  been 
thoroughly  effaced.  I  confess  that  I  was  unprepared  for  the  ob 
servation  of  an  occupant  of  the  house,  to  the  effect  that  the  blood 
of  Otis  had  formerly  bespattered  the  door ;  but  then  —  and  she 
seemed  to  say  it  regretfully  —  the  door  had  been  painted  over  by 
some  thoughtless  person,  and  all  traces  thoroughly  obliterated.  As 
to  that  story,  it  is  known  that  there  were  neither  marks  of  any  kind 
on  the  body  of  Otis,  nor  the  least  distortion  of  his  features. 

Otis  was  the  senior  of  all  the  men  who,  in  New  England, 
formed  the  Revolution,  except  Samuel  Adams,  his  antipode.  He 
was  the  ablest,  as  he  was  the  most  feared,  of  all  the  patriot  junto. 
There  were  but  one  or  two  men  on  the  side  of  the  Crown  who 
could  pretend  to  break  a  lance  with  him  in  debate  or  in  the  news 
papers.  He  brought  all  the  resources  of  history  to  his  aid  at  the 
bar,  and  he  had  all  the  ablest  of  the  Old  World  commentators  at 
his  tongue's  end.  It  was  to  Otis  that  John  Dickinson  sent  his 
famous  "  Farmer's  Letters,"  to  be  used  as  his  judgment  might 
dictate.  The  "Circular  Letter"  of  1768  was  drawn  up  by  Otis, 
and  revised  by  Samuel  Adams,  to  whom  this,  as  well  as  other 
documents  now  among  the  ablest  of  our  State  papers,  were  passed 
over  by  the  author  with  the  remark,  "  I  have  written  them  all,  and 
handed  them  over  to  Sam  to  quicuvicue  them,"  —  a  word  coined  by 
Otis  for  this  occasion.  Had  Otis  remained  in  his  right  mind,  he 
undoubtedly  would  have  enjoyed  the  perilous  distinction  of  being 


THE   LAST  RESIDENCE    OE  JAMES    OTIS  155 

the  first  man  to  be  proscribed  by  the  British  ministry.  Certainly  it 
was  a  distinction,  which,  if  not  coveted,  had  at  least  been  richly 
earned. 

It  was  Otis  who  struck  the  keynote  to  the  Revolution  by  his 
famous  speech  against  the  Writs  of  Assistance.  John  Adams  can 
didly  admits  that  Otis  was  his  political  master.  Among  all  the  men 
who  in  New  England  set  the  Revolution  on  its  feet,  made  it 
respectable  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  and  in  its  own,  James  Otis  was 
unquestionably  the  peer.  When  Otis  was  being  talked  about  at 
Westminster  and  St.  James',  Sam  Adams  was  hardly  known  out 
side  of  town-meetings,  John  Adams  only  as  a  struggling  barrister, 
and  John  Hancock  not  at  all  in  any  political  sense.  What  the  loss 
of  such  a  man,  in  the  high  prime  of  life,  and  full  vigor  of  his 
extraordinary  mental  powers,  meant  to  the  cause,  can  scarcely  be 
realized  at  this  day.  When  Otis  assumed  its  direction,  he  did  so 
as  the  leader  of  a  forlorn  hope.  But  he  had  the  moral  intrepidity 
for  anything. 

All  the  measures  proposed  by  the  opponents  of  the  royal  gov 
ernment  were  discussed  and  matured  in  the  clubs.  In  Boston,  the 
principal  of  these  was  the  Merchants'  Club,  which  had  existed  for 
twenty  years  previous  to  the  rupture  with  the  mother-country.  The 
club  held  its  meetings  in  a  front  room  of  the  British  Coffee-house 
in  King  Street,  which  was  much  frequented  by  all  the  leaders  of 
popular  opinion.  Otis'  inexhaustible  humor,  trenchant  wit,  and 
biting  sarcasm  made  him  as  much  the  central  figure  of  this  circle 
as  Sheridan,  who  resembled  him  in  many  respects,  was  at  Bellamy's 
and  the  London  clubs.  This  also  made  him  the  object  of  bitter 
hatred  to  the  Royalists,  one  of  whom,  an  officer  of  the  customs 
named  Robinson,  with  his  friends,  assaulted  Otis  with  a  bludgeon, 
inflicting  those  wounds  on  the  head  which  eventually  caused  his 
insanity. 

For  this  assault  Otis  recovered  two  thousand  pounds  damages 
in  a  civil  action  ;  but  such  was  the  extraordinary  magnanimity 


156  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

of  the  man  that  he  forgave  the  debt  upon  receiving  a  written 
apology  from  Robinson,  who  unquestionably  had  meant,  if  not  to 
kill  Otis  outright,  at  least  to  disable  or  maim  him  for  life.  What 
could  not  be  done  by  fair  argument  was  thus  to  be  effected  by 
force. 

There  is  little  doubt  that  there  was  much  secret  rejoicing 
among  the  Tories  when  Otis  was  thus  i4  put  out  of  the  way,"  for 
we  know  he  was  equally  hated  and  feared. 

After  his  unfortunate  encounter  with  Robinson,  which  happened 
in  this  very  coffee-house,  Otis  became  noticeably  garrulous,  and 
much  more  violent  and  unguarded  than  ever  in  his  invectives 
against  the  crown  officers  ;  but  his  shafts  no  longer,  as  of  old,  went 
straight  to  the  mark.  He  occasionally  displayed  flashes  of  his 
former  genius ;  but  the  native  warmth  of  his  temper,  never  under 
much  control,  was  greatly  aggravated  by  his  infirmity,  especially 
so  after  a  little  too  free  indulgence  in  wine. 

Yet  Otis  continued  now  and  then  to  take  part  in  public  affairs 
with  some  of  his  old  spirit, —  so  much  so  that  his  more  sanguine 
friends  grew  hopeful  of  his  full  and  entire  recovery. 

A  private  and  unpublished  letter  now  before  me,  dated  Sep 
tember  2,  1776,  says  that  on  the  previous  Monday,  James  Otis 
addressed  a  town-meeting  in  Boston,  and  spoke  as  well  as  ever, 
finding  great  fault  with  the  choosing  of  some  officials  during  the 
unsettled  state  of  the  town.  The  "  White  Wigs,"  as  the  more 
wealthy  and  influential  were  called,  finally  carried  the  day. 

Except  in  what  relates  to  his  public  career  —  and  of  that  we 
do  not  know  any  too  much — we  hear  little  about  Otis,  for  the 
reason  that  in  one  of  his  fits  of  despondency  he  destroyed  all  his 
private  papers.  This  is  the  more  to  be  regretted  because  he  is 
known  to  have  had  a  very  rich  and  extensive  correspondence. 

There  are,  however,  two  or  three  anecdotes  preserved  of  him 
which  serve  to  set  forth  some  of  his  peculiar  traits,  since  it  is  the 
man  himself  who  is  speaking  to  us. 


THE   LAST  RESIDENCE    OE  JAMES    OTIS  157 

In  the  course  of  some  discussion,  Otis  having  cited  the  eminent 
French  jurist,  Domat,  Governor  Bernard  languidly  inquired  who  Domat 
was.  Quick  as  a  flash  came  the  reply,  "  He  is  a  very  distinguished 
civilian,  and  not  the  less  an  authority  from  being  unknown  to  your 
excellency." 

Otis'  whimsical  rebuke  of  his  friend  Molineux  one  night  at  the 
club  gives  an  excellent  idea  of  him  when  he  felt  himself  in  a  facetious 
vein.  It  seems  that  Molineux  had  been  bitterly  complaining  of  ill- 
usage  by  the  Legislature  in  some  affair  in  which  he  was  interested,  in  a 
manner  that  wearied  and  disgusted  the  company.  Otis  at  last  arose, 
and  said:  "  Come,  Will,  quit  this  subject,  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves. 
I  also  have  a  list  of  grievances  :  will  you  hear  it  ?  "  The  club  expected 
some  fun;  and  all  cried  out,  "Ay!  ay!  let  us  hear  your  list!"  After 
reciting  some  of  his  sacrifices  by  the  loss  of  offices,  which  were  worth 
four  hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year,  Otis  continued  :  - 

"In  the  next  place,  I   have  lost  a  hundred  friends,  among  whom 
were  the  men  of  the  first  rank,  fortune,  and  power  in  the  Province  - 
at  what  price  will  you  estimate  them  ?  " 

"Hang  them,"  said  Molineux,  "  at  nothing ;  you  are  better  off 
without  them  than  with  them."  (A  loud  laugh.) 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Otis.  "  In  the  next  place,  you  know  I  love 
pleasure  ;  but  I  have  renounced  all  amusement  for  ten  years.  What 
is  that  worth  to  a  man  of  pleasure  ? " 

"  No  great  matter,"  said  Molineux  ;  "  you  have  made  politics  your 
amusement."  (A  hearty  laugh.) 

"Once  more,"  said  Otis,  holding  his  head  down  before  Molineux, 
"  look  upon  this  head  !  "  (displaying  a  scar  in  which  a  man  might  bury 
his  finger).  "What  do  you  think  of  this?  And,  what  is  worse,  my 
friends  think  I  have  a  monstrous  crack  in  my  skull." 

At  this,  John  Adams,  who  was  present,  says  the  company  all  at 
once  became  very  grave,  and  all  looked  solemn  ;  but  Otis,  setting  up 
a  laugh,  said,  with  a  gay  countenance,  to  Molineux  :  - 

"  Now,  Willie,   my   advice   to   you    is   to   say   no  more   about  your 


158  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

grievances ;  for  you  and  I  had  better  put  up  our  accounts  of  profit 
and  loss  in  our  pockets  and  say  no  more  about  them,  lest  the  world 
should  laugh  at  us." 

This  humorous  dialogue  put  all  the  company,  Molineux  included, 
in  good  humor,  and  the  remainder  of  the  evening  was  passed  joy 
ously. 


THE   RED   HORSE  159 


THE    RED    HORSE 

LONGFELLOW'S    "WAYSIDE    INN" 
SUDBURY,    MASS. 

"And  tufts  of  70  ay  side  weeds  and  gorse 
Hung  in  the  parlor  of  the  inu 
Beneath  the  sign  of  the  Red  Horse" 

LONGFELLOW. 

AN  Elegy  in  a  Country  Tavern  has  yet  to  be  written  by  some 
disciple  of  Mr.  Gray,  with  chambers  in  Pump  Court  instead  of  Pem 
broke  College.  When,  therefore,  I  enter  one  of  these  old  hostelries 
of  famous  memory,  I  feel  inclined  to  remove  my  hat,  and  repeat  a 
mental  ave  to  the  departed  company  of  glorious  old  fellows  who 
cracked  their  jokes  and  sipped  their  punch  so  many  years  ago. 

It  is  a  never-failing1  delight  to  remember   that  these  houses  were 

<_>  o 

once  frequented  by  gentlemen  in  cocked-hats,  bag-wigs,  small-swords, 
and  the  like,  and  that  the  conversation,  graceful  and  polished,  always 
introduced  with  a  formal  "  Sir,"  and  punctuated  with  many  stately 
bowings  and  scrapings,  was  such  as  is  now  never  heard  except  in 
legitimate  comedy  as  presented  at  some  of  our  first-class  theatres. 
How  we  should  stare  to  be  sure,  to  be  accosted  by  some  Jack  Wilkes, 
Sam  Eoote,  or  Davy  Garrick,  in  ruffles  and  laced  waistcoat,  with  leg 
advanced  in  artistic  pose,  and  negligently  tapping  a  jewelled  snuff 
box  !  And  how  vapid  our  social  chatter  seems  after  a  brilliant 
drawing-room  conversation  in  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  or  an 
evening  with  the  author  of  the  Spectator  ! 

Epistolary  correspondence  is  another  lost  art.  Railway  and  tele 
graph  have  sucked  all  the  marrow  out  of  modern  letter- wfi ting1,  and 


160  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

left  us  nothing  but  the  dry  bones  and  watery  commonplaces.  The 
private  correspondence  of  great  men,  once  so  rich  in  materials  for  the 
history  of  their  time,  has  now  become  of  so  little  moment  as  to  render 
its  examination  scarce  worth  the  making,  except  to  autograph  hunters. 
Woe  to  the  man  so  regardless  of  the  fitness  of  things  as  to  intrude 
into  a  business  letter  an  expression  of  interest  in  the  personal  welfare 
of  his  correspondent !  He  is  at  once  set  down  as  no  business  man. 
His  very  credit  would  be  in  jeopardy  for  so  reckless  a  disregard  of 
the  maxim  of  the  day--  namely,  that  "  Business  is  business."  Yet  it 
is  some  consolation  to  know  that  the  clays  of  Fielding,  Addison,  Steele, 
Goldsmith,  and  Johnson  are  not  likely  to  be  forgotten  as  easily  as  their 
dress  and  social  customs  have  faded  from  recollection. 

Some  people  have  a  mania  for  visiting  apartments  in  which  cele 
brated  personages  have  succumbed  to  the  grim  foe  of  mortality. 
Others  prefer  the  lugubrious  associations  of  the  churchyard,  with  its 
story  of  baffled  hopes,  and  perhaps  most  welcome  release  from  a 
struggle  for  mere  existence.  To  my  mind  there  is  quite  as  much  sense 
and  far  more  poetry  in  communion  with  the  grand  old  men  of  the  past 
in  the  haunts  of  their  happier  hours,  consecrated  by  the  pleasantest  of 
memories,  and  where  the  approaches  of  life's  enemy  were  combated 
with  unflagging  stomachs.  For  the  time,  at  least,  we  can  put  aside 
whatever  might  have  imbittered  their  lives,  to  listen  to  their  formal 
toasts,  their  rattling  choruses,  or  sparkling  wit,  and  mayhap  ourselves 
make  one  in  one  of  those  mighty  carousals  of  which  the  present 
generation  has  little  conception.  For  a  tete-a-tete  with  phantoms  my 
preference,  as  between  the  drooping  willows  and  dank  grass  of  the 
churchyard  and  a  snug  corner  at  the  "  Wayside,"  is  unquestion 
ably  given  to  the  more  comfortable  quarters  of  mine  host. 

What  the  subject  is  capable  of  has  often  been  shown.  We  mount 
our  palfrey  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Tabard  with  the  Canterbury  pilgrims, 
the  company  marshalled  by 

"Old   Chaucer's  boast,   the  goodly  host, 
Immortal  Harry  liailly  !  '' 


THE   RED   HORSE  161 

We  loiter  with  Dryclen  at  Will's  Coffee-house,  where  he  sits  among  the 
critics,  the  undisputed  lawgiver  in  all  literary  disputes.  We  enjoy 
many  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  Mitre,  in  Fleet  Street,  where  Boswell  tells 
us  that  Johnson  loved  to  sit  up  late  —  a  propos,  what  a  nice  young  man 
for  a  tea-party  was  Bozzy,  and  how  we  could  have  enjoyed  seeing  him 
snubbed  by  burly  Sam!  —  and,  last  but  not  least,  we  linger  long  about 
the  rickety  galleries  of  the  White  Hart,  in  the  Borough,  where  Jack 
Cade  once  made  his  headquarters  (or  we  have  been  wickedly  misled) , 
and  where  Dickens  first  introduced  us  to  Samuel  Weller  the  younger, 
and  where  also  the  machinations  of  designing  Alfred  Jingle  were 
thwarted  by  our  preux  chevalier  Pickwick.  A  place  in  those  days 
above  the  salt  was  no  such  bad  thino-  after  all. 

o 

Mr.  Tennyson,  in  that  inimitable  monologue  which  has  given 
additional  relish  to  every  Englishman's  mutton-chop  or  pint  of  port, 
has  introduced  us  to  his  muse  under  the  exhilarating  influence  of 
the  blazing  hearth  and  well-known  good  cheer  of  the  hostel.  He  tells 
the  waiter,  "  a  something  pottle-bodied  boy,"  that,  when  he  dies,  - 

"  No  carved  cross-bones,  the  type  of  Death, 

Shall   show  thee   passed  to  heaven  ; 
But  carved  cross-pipes,   and,   underneath, 
A  pint-pot  neatly  graven." 

Mine  host  has  been  celebrated  in  song  and  story  in  the  most 
ancient  chronicles  and  poesy.  The  heart  instinctively  warms  at  the 
mention  of  his  name  ;  for  to  his  care  was  confided  that  most  sensi 
tive  of  organs  —  to  wit,  the  stomach.  Not  one  of  these  worth)' 
landlords  was  ever  known  to  fall,  like  Vatel,  upon  his  own  sword, 
because  there  was  not  enough  roast-meat  to  go  round.  "  He  who 
sleeps  dines,"  may  pass  for  a  proverb  in  France,  but  could  never 
have  become  very  popular  with  our  English  ancestors,  who  knew 
far  better  how  to  sleep  off  a  hearty  meal  than  go  without  one- 
they  would  infinitely  have  preferred  a  lengthened  vigil  to  the  brief 
est  period  of  fasting,  and  must  always  be  well  fed  before  being  led 


1 62  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

to  battle.  All  men  must  die ;  but,  in  order  that  the  evil  day  may 
be  averted  as  long  as  possible,  all  men  must  dine.  Such,  indeed, 
was  the  whole  philosophy  of  tavern-life. 

The  tavern  occupied  in  the  eighteenth  century  the  place  which 
the  club  does  now,  with  the  greater  advantage  that  its  doors  were 
open  to  all  comers.  Any  stranger  might  mingle  in  the  general  con 
versation  of  the  tap-room  without  fear  of  being  considered  an 
intruder;  and  as  the  poor  Irishman  once  told  Goldsmith,  when  in 
structing  him  how  to  live  in  London  on  thirty  pounds  a  year,  by 
spending  twopence  at  a  coffee-house  you  might  be  "in  very  good 
company "  several  hours  every  day. 

What  was  characteristic  of  the  old  English  inns  may  be  applied 
with  certain  modifications  to  this  side  of  the  water.  Si^ns  swunof 

o  o 

in  Cornhill,  Broadway,  or  Chestnut  Street  similar  to  those  that 
creaked  within  a  short  walk  of  Temple  Bar.  Bench  and  bar,  mer 
chants  and  tradesmen,  assembled  at  the  taverns  to  read  their  letters, 
buy  and  sell,  discuss  the  latest  phase  of  European  politics,  and  ex 
change  all  the  current  gossip.  Literature  we  had  none ;  but  Pope, 
Swift,  Steele,  Arbuthnot,  and  the  rest,  were  as  warmly  criticised  or 
lauded  as  they  might  have  been  in  Longacre  or  Cheap.  When 
George  III.  was  king,  the  taverns  speedily  became  noted  as  political 
centres — nearly  all  the  revolutionary  measures  being  concerted  in 
tavern-coteries  or  at  the  clubs.  The  Non-Importation  Act  origi 
nated  at  a  private  club  ;  the  destruction  of  the  tea  was  planned  in 
a  tavern.  \Ve  insist  that  the  annals  of  some  of  these  old  inns 
would  not  be  without  interest  in  connection  with  certain  passages 
of  American  history  —  such,  for  example,  as  the  meeting  of  the 
delegates  to  the  Philadelphia  Congress  of  1774,  at  Smith's  City 
Tavern,  before  they  walked  to  Carpenter's  Hall  to  organize  ;  or  that 
most  affecting  leave-taking  by  Washington  of  his  lieutenants,  at 
Francis's  Tavern,  in  New  York — a  scene  to  which  that  of  Fontaine- 
bleau,  with  all  its  dramatic  embracincrs  of  standards,  does  not  hold 

o 

a  candle,   in  our  opinion. 


THE   RED   HORSE 

In  a  secluded  nook  among  the  Middlesex  hills,  three  miles  from 
Suclbury  Centre  and  about  an  hour's  ride  by  rail  from  Boston,  is 
the  ancient  hostelry  which  Mr.  Longfellow  has  made  famous  by  his 
"Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn."  It  is  so  embowered  among  the  trees 
as  not  to  be  perceived  until  a  sharp  turn  of  the  road  brings  you 
almost  to  the  old-fashioned  door.  And  even  when  you  have  arrived 
there,  so  perfect  is  the  sense  of  seclusion,  so  complete  the  silence, 


THE    RED    HORSE    (WAYSIDE    INN),    SUDBURY,    MASS. 

that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  this  now  deserted  road  was  ever  a  much- 
travelled  highway.  Nevertheless,  .the  "Wayside"  -or,  to  call  things 
by  their  right  names,  the  "Red  Horse"  -stands  on  the  old  post- 
route  between  Boston  and  the  Connecticut  River,  once  the  great  thor 
oughfare  all  travelled,  and  over  which  a  lumbering  stage-coach  once 
passed  twice  a  week. 

The  region    round    about,    though    quiet    enough    now,    is    full  of 
the  records  of  more  stirring  times.     Marlborough,  Sudbury,  and  Lan- 


1 64  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

caster,  the  neighboring  towns,  were  frequently  harried  and  well-nigh 
destroyed  in  1676,  during  Philip's  War;  and  Sudbury  Fight,  as  it 
is  called,  has  a  monument  above  the  graves  of  the  outnumbered 
colonial  soldiers  who,  when  driven  like  hunted  deer  to  a  hilltop  from 
which  there  was  no  escape,  sold  their  lives  almost  to  a  man  on 
that  bloody  spot.  Not  far  from  us  Mount  Nobscot  rears  high  its 
green  bulk ;  and,  should  we  stand  on  its  summit,  rare  glimpses 
there  would  be  of  hill  and  vale,  forest  and  stream,  with  floods  of 
light  and  shade  —  a  coloring  never  seen  on  canvas  —  and  a  delight 
ful  vista  of  tranquil  inland  scenery  for  twenty  miles  around. 

Mr.  Longfellow  freely  admitted,  in  the  course  of  a  conversation 
\vith  the  writer,  that  the  idea  of  the  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn" 
was  taken  from  Boccaccio's  "  Decarnerone."  The  inn,  he  said,  served 
as  a  framework  for  his  tales.  And  he  was  equally  unreserved  with 
regard  to  certain  deviations  from  the  strict  letter  of  historical 

o 

narratives.  Like  Mr.  Whittier,  he  claimed  the  fullest  freedom  in 
adapting  the  story  to  the  wants  of  his  muse.  This  is  nothing  new. 
Thucydides  long  ago  warned  his  readers  against  the  blandishments 
of  the  poets.  And  WTaller  has  put  the  same  idea  into  his  famous 
reply  to  Charles  II.:  ''Your  majesty  knows  that  poets  always  sue 
ceed  best  in  fiction." 

In  his  "  Prelude "  Mr.  Longfellow  has  described  some  of  the 
more  salient  features  of  the  "  Wayside,"  not  forgetting  the  'scutch 
eon  of  mine  host,  nor  the  "jovial  rhymes"  cut  with  a  diamond  on 
the  window-pane. 

The  house  is  believed  to  have  been  built  soon  after  1680,  it 
having  been  for  nearly  a  century  and  a  half  continuously  a  public- 
house,  kept  by  generation  after  generation  of  the  family  of  Howe. 
Indeed,  among  the  country  folk  it  was  always  spoken  of  as  the 
Howe  Tavern.  In  respect  to  antiquity  and  continued  public  ser 
vice,  the  "  Red  Horse "  may,  I  think,  claim  precedence  of  any 
tavern  in  America.  Its  door  was  not  finally  closed  to  the  traveller 
until  1860,  or  long  after  it  had  outlived  its  usefulness,  and  few 


THE   RED   HORSE  165 

customers  passed  its  well-worn  threshold.  Across  the  broad  space 
left  for  the  road  are  the  barns  and  outbuildings,  near  which  stood 
the  tall  post  on  which  the  sign-board  hung.  "  Look  at  the  date  !  " 
exclaims  Thoreau,  whose  lungs  expand  joyously  in  presence  of  the 
newly  discovered  hostelry.  The  sign,  in  fact,  bore  the  following 

inscription  :  - 

"D.  H.,  1686, 
E.  H,  1746. 
A.  Howe,  1796." 

One  corner  of  the  tap-room  was  railed  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
room,  and  furnished  with  a  wooden  portcullis,  to  which  the  open 
sesame  was  a  few  coppers  or  an  old-fashioned  fo'pence.  This 
was  the  bar,  which  I  judge  to  have  been  well  patronized.  In  fact, 
the  sanded  floor  appeared  well  worn  by  the  shuffling  of  many  feet, 
and  the  thick  oak  beams  overhead  had  taken  a  deeper  coloring, 
due  perhaps  to  their  long  seasoning  with  the  steam  of  spiced  rum 
or  flip.  As  long  ago  as  1724,  during  Lovewell's  War,  this  tap 
room  was  the  regular  rendezvous  of  the  troop  of  horse  that 
patrolled  the  roads  hereabouts -- a  band  of  steel-capped,  buff- 
coated  riders,  who  knew  right  well  where  good  liquor  was  to  be 
had  by  hook  or  by  crook,  as  soldiers  usually  do.  On  the  day  of 
the  battle  of  Lexington  the  minute-men  from  Worcester,  led  by 
Timothy  Bigelow,  rested  here  after  making  a  forced  march,  until 
the  distant  rumbling  of  Percy's  cannon  hurried  them  on  to  the 
front  again. 

But,  for  all  these  traditions,  the  "Wayside"  might  have  dozed 
away  its  declining  years,  forgotten  of  men,  if  Mr.  Longfellow  had 
not  found  it  out,  rekindled  the  fire  on  its  cold  hearth-stone,  and 
with  a  flourish  of  his  pen,  as  one  might  say,  given  it  such  custom 
as  no  hostelry  since  Chaucer's  day  has  enjoyed. 

In  the  "  Decamerone "  of  Boccaccio  the  terrors  of  the  plague 
hang  over  the  merry  company.  The  raconteur  endeavors  to  drive 
away  the  fear  of  the  dread  scourge  from  the  minds  of  his  hearers 


1 66  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

by  keeping  up  their  spirits.  Mr.  Longfellow  has  discarded  all  such 
sinister  surroundings.  His  company  is  made  up  of  landlord,  stu 
dent,  Spanish  Jew,  Sicilian,  musician,  theologian,  and  poet,  whose 
stories  are  told  around  a  blazing  wood-fire  in  the  best  room  of 
the  "  Red  Horse."  One  of  the  old  bachelor  brothers  (Adam  and 
Lyman  Howe,  the  last  descendants  of  a  long  line  of  landlords)  tells 
us  the  story  of  "  Paul  Revere's  Ride  "  in  verse,  that  sends  the  hot 
blood  pulsing  through  the  veins  like  a  trumpet-call,  and  would 
have  produced  on  some  old  Revolutionary  pensioner  the  effect 
Beranger  so  sharply  describes  in  the  "  Vieux  Sergent " 

uLe  sang  remonte  a  son  front  qui  grisonne, 
Le  vieux  coursier  a  senti  1'aiguillon." 

The  rest  of  the  company  relate  the  wild  legends  of  other 
climes,  the  roof-tree  of  the  old  inn  furnishing  the  setting.  At 
least  four  of  their  number  are  real  characters,  who  were  known  to 
affect  the  quiet  of  the  place,  and  the  cakes  and  ale  of  mine  host. 

During  a  visit  made  to  the  poet  at  his  historic  mansion  in  Cam 
bridge,  he  talked  very  pleasantly  of  his  first  introduction  to  the 
"  Wayside  "  some  thirty  years  before.  Let  the  travellers  of  to-day 
who  grumble  at  spending  six  hours  on  the  road  between  Boston 
and  Xew  York  take  notice.  The  stage  then  left  town  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  reaching  Sudbury  Tavern  for  breakfast,  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  route  being  thus  traversed  in  total  dark 
ness  and  without  your  having  the  least  idea  who  your  companions 
inside  might  be.  It  was  under  circumstances  thus  unprepossess 
ing  that  he  first  made  acquaintance  with  Howe's  Tavern.  Being 
then  upon  the  subject  of  taverns  and  ways  of  travel,  he  also  nar 
rated  some  of  his  experiences  of  stage-travel  between  Boston  and 
Portland,  when  the  "  accommodation "  took  two  days  for  the  jour 
ney.  In  winter  this  "accommodation"  of  illusory  import  was  noth 
ing  more  than  an  ordinary  sleigh,  furnished  with  sides  of  coarse 
bocking,  which  madly  plunged  into  the  cradle-holes,  or  slowly 


THE   RED   HORSE  167 

struggled  on  through  the  deep  snow-drifts  like  a  ship  in  a  heavy 
sea.  The  stage  then  stopped  for  the  night  at  Portsmouth,  a  place 
we  do  not  forget  in  thinking  of  "  Mistress  Stavers "  and  the  "Earl 
of  Halifax." 

While  seated  in  the  poet's  study  my  attention  was  drawn  to 
some  very  good  crayon  portraits  of  such  of  our  literary  file-leaders 
as  Emerson  and  Hawthorne,  taken  before  time  and  care  had  snatched 
all  the  spiritual  out  of  their  faces,  and  left  them 

"  Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

Another  of  Mr.  Sumner,  as  he  might  have  looked  thirty  years 
before,  thin-visaged,  and  with  a  deeply  thoughtful  expression,  hung 
above  the  fireplace.  It  being  just  after  the  election  of  General 
Hayes  to  the  presidency,  I  said,  with  a  glance  at  this  portrait,  "  He 
would  have  made  an  important  figure  in  this  crisis,  would  he  not  ?  " 
To  which  the  poet  replied  very  earnestly,  "I'm  glad  we've  got  along 
without  him.  That,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  big  easy-chair  in 
which  I  was  sitting  before  the  fireplace,  "  is  Sumner's  chair.  He  liked 
to  lounge."  There  was,  it  is  understood,  a  close  sympathy  between 
the  poet  and  Mr.  Sumner,  whose  death,  like  that  of  Agassiz,  was  to 
the  former  as  a  personal  bereavement. 

I  have  said  much  more  of  Mr.  Longfellow  than  of  the  Wayside 
Inn,  but  the  hostelry  and  the  poet  are  henceforth  one  and  insep 
arable.  Since  that  visit  was  paid,  the  most  gracious  poet  in  his 
personal  demeanor  toward  humbler  men  of  letters  has  been  gathered 
to  his  fathers. 

None  of  the  later  photographs  of  him  are  at  all  satisfying. 
Almost  invariably  they  represent  a  man  older  by  a  dozen  years 
than  he,  with  strongly  marked  and  somewhat  harsh  physiognomy. 
His  face,  on  the  contrary,  possessed  mobility,  and  beamed  with  a 
natural  benignity  that  the  camera  has  not  caught.  His  complexion 
was  warm,  and  in  agreeable  contrast  with  his  hair  and  beard,  both 
of  which  were  white  as  snow,  and  were  worn  long  and  very  abundant. 


1 68  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

He  had  neither  the  picturesque  wildness  of  the  late  British  laureate, 
nor  the  patriarchal  grandeur  of  the  author  of  "Thanatopsis,"  who 
might  at  any  time  within  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  have  sat 
for  Elijah,  or  one  of  the  prophets.  Mr.  Longfellow's  head  impressed 
me  like  a  study  from  one  of  the  Greek  antiques,  classic  and  noble. 
His  manner  was  frank  and  winning,  without  any  of  that  overpower 
ing  self-consciousness  with  which  some  of  our  literati  are  hedged 
about. 

But  I  had  clean  forgotten  the  "  Red  Horse,"  and  it  is  now  high 
time  to  say  au  revoir.  The  inn,  never  fear,  will  keep  its  place  in 
history.  We  do  not  forget  that  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  once  kept 
a  public  house,  or  that  Israel  Putnam  was  a  publican.  In  the  Bible 
we  read  that  the  Saviour  was  laid  in  the  manger  because  there  was 
no  more  room  at  the  inn  in  Bethlehem.  Yet  the  days  of  the  old- 
time  hostelry  are  no  more.  In  its  stead  have  arisen  the  marble  and 
plate-glass  palaces,  which  make  one  shiver  to  look  at  them,  and  the 
chop-houses,  which  have  made  indigestion  national ;  but  \vhen,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  "  Wayside,"  we  encounter  one  of  these  old  inns 
left  high  and  dry  in  some  forgotten  by-way,  our  thoughts  go  back 
to  the  era  when  the  world  enjoyed  itself  as  well  as  it  knew  how, 
and  was  content.  Right  glad  are  we,  then,  that  "  Old  Sudbury 
Inn,"  its  oaks  and  its  woodbine,  have  been  embalmed  in  imperish 
able  verse.  Still  more  comfort  do  we  take  in  the  recent  announce 
ment  that  Sudbury  Inn  has  been  purchased  by  a  public-spirited 
citizen  with  a  view  to  its  preservation. 


THE   PEPPERELLS    OF  K2TTERY  POINT  169 


THP:    PEPPERELLS    OF    KITTERY    POINT 

KITTERY,  be  it  briefly  said  for  the  benefit  of  those  unfortunates 
who  have  not  yet  found  their  way  to  it,  and  to  whom  the  name  even 
may  at  first  sound  a  little  outlandish,  as  it  once  did  to  me,  is  situ 
ated  in  the  extreme  south-western  corner  of  Maine  —  the  jumping- 
on-place,  as  one  might  say,  since  Eastport,  at  the  other  extremity 
of  the  State,  has  so  long  been  popularly  known  as  the  jumping-off- 
place. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  Kittery,  as  land  seems  to  have  been  of 
no  object  when  most  of  these  Maine  towns  were  laid  out  (Kittery, 
in  fact,  having  at  one  time  been  about  as  large  or  larger  than  the 
State  of  Rhode  Island,  if  I  am  not  greatly  in  error)  ;  but  we  have 
no  present  concern  except  with  that  little  corner  of  it  which  lies 
tucked  away  almost  in  Old  Ocean's  tossing  bed  —  the  Point  —  Kit 
tery  Point. 

It  is  only  in  some  such  out-of-the-way  corner  as  this  that  one 
can  still  discover,  here  and  there,  some  few  traces  of  the  old,  the 
real  New  England  villages  —  the  old  houses  that  were  once  ^ood 

o  o  o 

enough  for  anybody  to  live  in  (no  new  ones  had  been  built  within 
the  memory  of  man),  the  severely  plain  Orthodox  meeting-house 
standing  stiffly  up  on  its  neatly  kept  green,  like  an  ever-watchful 
sentinel  at  his  post,  and  here  and  there  the  mansion  of  some  village 
magnate,  the  only  one  to  whom  the  title  of  Mr.  was  vouchsafed, 
whose  bones  now  moulder  in  the  village  churchyard  under  a  free 
stone  slab,  reciting  his  many  virtues  to  empty  air. 

In  former  times,  which  saying  may  mean,  in  America,  not  more 
than  ten  or  twenty  years  ago,  Kittery  was  not  so  often  heard  of 
outside  its  own  borders  or  so  easily  reached  as  now.  One  modest 


I  JO  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

public  house  served  all  comers.  You  went  there  from  Portsmouth 
by  a  stage,  whose  driver,  being  the  errand-boy  for  the  whole  village, 
did  his  chores  as  he  went  along,  and  answered  a  perfect  fusilade  of 
questions  as  fast  as  they  were  popped  at  him.  You  passed  Spruce 
Creek  bridge  at  a  trot  that  made  everything  rattle  again,  took  the 
sharp  rise  past  the  village  meeting-house  and  churchyard  at  a 
gallop,  fell  into  a  slow  walk  as  you  mounted  the  last  hill,  on  which 
the  unfinished  fort,  — 

"  Like  the  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower, 
Unfinished  must  remain," 

and  sa\v  before  you  that  most  beautiful  and  refreshing,  and  at  the 
same  time  silencing,  of  all  sights,  the  ocean  strewed  with  white 
sails,  like  lilies  scattered  upon  some  magnificent  blue  carpet.  In  a 
few  minutes  more  you  were  deposited  at  the  hospitable  door  of  mine 
host  Safford. 

Right  at  the  turning  of  the  road  stands  a  very  old  house.  Sir 
William  Pepperell,  Bart.,  lived  and  died  in  that  house.  Between  the 
road  and  the  hotel  you  will  pass  by  his  tomb,  by  which  you  will  under 
stand  that  these  grounds  —  yes,  and  acres  more  —  were  once  his 
grounds,  though  I  never  could  quite  see  why  the  tomb  should  be 
considered  one  of  the  hotel  attractions.  Reader,  do  you  ? 

You  will  now  hear  much  more  of  Sir  William  Pepperell  than  ever 
before.  For  some  time,  at  least,  you  will  breathe  a  Pepperell  atmos 
phere.  The  Pepperell  mansion  will  inevitably  be  the  very  first  place 
you  will  visit ;  for  should  you  neglect  doing  so,  the  avowal  will  be 
certain  to  bring  a  look  of  such  amazement  to  the  face  of  your  first 
acquaintance  that  you  will  feel  it  as  a  merited  reproof. 

Then,  why  not  go  there  beforehand  with  me  ? 

The  Pepperell  mansion,  as  we  see  it,  really  consists  of  two  houses, 
the  south  part  having  been  built  by  the  father  of  the  conqueror  of 
Louisburg,  and  the  north  part  by  Sir  William  himself.  The  building  was 
once  much  more  extensive  than  it  now  appears  ;  it  having  been,  some 


THE   PEPPER  ELLS    OE  KITTERY  POINT  171 

forty  years  ago,  shortened  by  ten  feet  at  either  end.  Until  the  death 
of  the  elder  Pepperell,  in  the  year  1734,  this  house  was  occupied  by 
his  own  and  his  son's  families,  according  to  that  good  old  custom  we 
have  now  outgrown,  and  must  have  then  contained  as  many  apartments 
as  a  good-sized  modern  hotel.  The  lawn  in  front  reached  quite  down 
to  the  water  ;  and  an  avenue,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  skirted  by 
trees,  led  all  the  way  to  the  house  of  Colonel  Sparhawk,  a  little 


HOME    OF    SIR    WILLIAM    PEPPERELL. 


east  of  the  village  church.  Plain  as  is  its  exterior,  the  Pepperell  man 
sion  represents  one  of  the  greatest  fortunes  of  the  colonial  time  in  all 
New  England.  It  used  to  be  commonly  said  that  Sir  William  could 
ride  to  the  Saco,  thirty  miles  distant  from  his  home,  without  going  off 
of  his  own  possessions. 

The  elder  Sir  William,  by  his  will,  made   the   son  of  his  daughter 
Elizabeth  and  Colonel  Sparhawk  his  residuary  legatee,  on  condition  of 


I72  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

his  grandson's  relinquishing  the  name  of  Sparhawk  and  taking  that 
of  Pepperell.  The  baronetcy,  being  extinct  with  the  elder  Sir  William, 
was  revived  by  the  king  for  the  benefit  of  this  grandson  of  his,  who, 
being  an  out-and-out  loyalist,  went  to  England  in  1775,  and  the  large 
estates  in  Maine  and  elsewhere  were  confiscated.  The  last  baronet  is 
the  prominent  figure  in  West's  4k  Reception  of  the  American  Loyalists." 
In  the  poet  Longfellow's  Cambridge  mansion  there  is,  or  was,  hanging 
in  the  drawing-room,  one  of  Copley's  striking  pictures,  representing 
two  children  in  a  park,  the  portraits  being  those  of  William  and  Eliza 
beth  Royall  Pepperell.  In  the  Essex  Institute  at  Salem,  Mass.,  there 
is  a  full-length  portrait  of  the  victor  of  Louisburg,  painted  in  London, 
by  Smibert,  in  1751.  The  baronet  is  attired  in  a  coat  of  scarlet  cloth, 
richly  laced,  and  has  a  truncheon  in  his  hand.  The  background  is  filled 
in  with  a  spirited  representation  of  the  siege  in  full  action. 

And  who  was  this  William  Pepperell,  upon  whom  all  these  honors 
had  been  showered  ?  A  mere  trader  and  shipbuilder  of  Kittery  Point ; 
a  man  who  had  been  all  his  life  contentedly  engaged  in  peaceful  pur 
suits —  in  adding  year  by  year  to  his  gains  and  his  ventures,  on  sea 
and  land,  until  his  wealth  had  become  the  talk  of  the  colony  ;  a  man 
of  scrupulous  integrity,  of  virtuous  character,  of  reserved  powers  per 
haps  that  only  needed  the  call  of  opportunity  to  draw  them  out.  That 
this  quiet,  unassuming,  contented  man  of  business  should  be  suddenly 
called  upon  to  lead  an  army  forth  to  a  desperate  and  well-nigh  hope 
less  undertaking,  is  an  instructive  reminder  that  the  old  traditions  were 
not  extinct  by  which  every  colonist  was  at  least  half  a  soldier.  It  lets 
us  into  the  spirit  of  that  utterly  contemptible  policy  by  which  the 
colonists  were  left  to  fight  their  own  battles  or  perish.  All  they  pos 
sessed  in  the  world  had  been  won  by  their  own  efforts.  From  Acadia 
to  the  Carolinas  one  long  bloody  track  attested  their  trials  and  their 
never-failing  courage.  These  were  indeed  more  peaceful  times,  but 
when  the  summons  did  come  again  it  found  the  sons  worthy  of  the 
sires.  War  was  now  threatening  them  again,  not  indeed  a  war  of 
their  own  making  or  of  their  own  choosing,  but  one  into  which  they 


THE   PEPPERELLS    OF  KITTERY  POINT  173 

were  being  dragged  by  the  ridiculous  quarrels  in  Europe  about  the 
Austrian  succession.  Nevertheless,  it  was  war.  Their  fishery,  ship 
building,  commerce  —  their  all,  in  short  —  were  at  stake.  So  the  old 
drums  were  taken  down  from  the  wall,  the  preachers  went  up  into  their 
pulpits,  men  and  boys  spent  the  long  winter  evenings  in  running 
bullets  and  in  cleaning  up  the  old  Queen's  arms,  and  women  diligently 
worked  at  scraping  lint.  Suggestive  division  of  labor  !  —  the  men's 
of  dangers  to  be  met,  the  women's  of  binding  up  their  wounds. 

Against  all  the  obstacles  that  can  be  conceived  of  William  Shirley 
created  an  army  and  fleet.  Against  all  the  probabilities  in  the  case 
William  Pepperell  took  Louisburg.  What  does  the  world  say  of  such 
desperate  enterprises  as  this  was  ?  If  unsuccessful,  they  are  just 
what  might  be  expected  from  sheer  ignorance,  rashness,  and  self- 
conceit  ;  if  successful,  they  are  strokes  of  genius. 

And  what  was  going  on  over  the  water?  The  year  1745  opened 
with  all  Europe  in  commotion.  The  Emperor  Charles  VII.  dead  in 
January  ;  all  the  petty  German  princes  striving  for  the  imperial  crown  ; 
France  supporting  the  pretensions  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany  ; 
Austria,  seeinor  her  advantage  in  the  muddle,  invades  Bohemia ;  Fred- 

o  o 

erick  the  Great  swoops  down  upon  Saxony,  and  marches  into  Dresden 
at  the  head  of  his  grenadiers ;  war  is  surging  along  the  Rhenish 
frontier,  and  blazing  fiercely  in  Silesia,  Hungary,  and  Italy  ;  France  is 
in  the  field  with  a  powerful  army,  led  by  her  illustrious  soldier  and 
profligate,  Maurice  de  Saxe. 

England  has,  of  course,  a  hand  in  the  broil.  Dissension  is  in 
her  cabinet  when  unity  is  all  essential.  Lord  Chesterfield  is  hurried 
off  to  the  Hague  to  try  to  induce  the  States  General  to  engage  in 
the  war.  The  quadruple  alliance  is  signed  at  Warsaw,  England, 
as  usual,  furnishing  the  money.  The  allied  army,  under  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  confidently  advances  against  the  French,  and  once 
more  Belgium  becomes  the  battle-ground.  Fontenoy  is  fought. 
Marshal  Saxe,  giving  orders  from  his  litter  because  too  sick  to 
mount  his  horse,  wins  the  day,  and  with  it  all  the  Austrian  Nether- 


1/4  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

lands.  Duke  William,  afterward  the  red-handed  victor  of  Drum- 
mossie  Moor,  falls  back  upon  Brussels. 

Here  the  beaten  and  dispirited  army  is  roused  from  its  des 
pondency  by  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Louisburg,  the  great  French 
stronghold,  sometimes  called  the  Dunkirk  of  America.  Great  were 
the  rejoicings  in  the  allied  camp.  A  review  of  the  whole  army,  by 
order  of  the  duke,  signalized  the  event.  The  forces  were  drawn  up 
in  battle  order,  the  park  of  artillery  being  formed  on  an  extensive 
plain  near  Vilvorden.  According  to  the  military  etiquette  of  the 
time,  the  field-officers  saluted  his  royal  highness  as  he  passed  the 
line  by  dropping  the  points  of  their  swords,  while  the  other  officers, 
who  carried  fusees,  only  took  off  their  hats. 

Enough  could  not  be  said  in  England  in  praise  of  the  gallantry 
of  the  colonists.  In  thirty  years  these  very  colonists  were  being 
called  cowards,  poltroons,  lambs,  by  the  same  fickle  popular  voice  ! 

Nothing  better  illustrates  the  ever-changing  fortunes  which  men 
and  nations  experience  than  the  fact  that  the  mighty  fortress  which 
cost  twenty-five  years  to  build,  sustained  two  sieges,  and  before 
whose  strong  walls  hundreds  of  lives  were  sacrificed,  would,  if  it 

o 

were  now  in  existence,  possess  not  the  least  political  consequence, 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  homely  dwelling  of  the  Pepperells 
still  remains,  overlooking  the  sea  much  as  it  did  when  the  flag  of 
France  waved  above  the  battlements  of  Cape  Breton. 

That  is  the  whole  story  in  a  nutshell  down  to  the  time  when 
Sir  William  passed  off  the  stage;  his  favorite  grandson  became  a 
banished  man,  and  his  name,  title,  and  possessions  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  vortex  of  revolution.  His  very  grave  was  treated  with 
cruel  neglect.  Surely,  Sir  William  Pepperell  deserved  better  of  his 
country  than  that  all  his  lands  and  estates  should  now  be  comprised 
in  that  six  feet  of  ground  yonder.  From  the  page  of  history  the 
name  of  Sir  William  Pepperell  shines  out  gloriously,  perennially ; 
the  story  of  Louisburg  is  deathless  ;  on  the  actual  face  of  things  the 
name  of  Sir  William  Pepperell  is  only  a  national  reproach. 


THE   PEPPERELLS    OF  KITTERY  POINT  175 

Close  by  the  mansion  is  the  very  ancient  dwelling  of  John  Bray, 
the  bluff  old  shipwright,  whose  daughter  Margery,  the  baronet's 
father  wooed  and  won,  notwithstanding  Bray's  dislike  of  the  match, 
as  he  thought  his  daughter  was  throwing  herself  away.  Back  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  meeting-house,  which  was  passed  on  our 
way  down  to  the  Point,  is  the  mansion  built  by  Lady  Pepperell 
after  her  husband's  death.  After  living  thirty  years  a  widow,  she 
died  in  that  house  in  1789,  and  in  a  few  years  more  the  property 
came  into  the  possession  of  Captain  Joseph  Cutts,  in  whose  family 
it  still  remains. 

Farther  on,  toward  the  sea,  the  same  road  we  have  travelled 
will  take  us  to  Gerrish's  Island,  a  place  invested  with  more  or  less 
historical  and  poetical  interest.  Francis  Champernoune's  grave  is 
there  to  arouse  the  one,  and  the  Thaxter  cottage  to  excite  the 
other.  Yonder  the  road  goes  straggling  on  over  the  hills  to  Old 
York,  and  to  fields  and  pastures  new. 


;6  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


THE    EARLY    HOME   OF  JOHN    HOWARD    PAYNE 

"HOME,  SWEET  HOME" 
EASTHAMPTON,    LONG    ISLAND 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE  did  a  great  many  things  in  the  course  of 
an  eventful  life,  and  did  them  all  well ;  yet  the  world  really  remem 
bers  him  for  one  thing  only  —  as  the  author  of  "  Home,  Sweet 
Home."  That  simple  and  touching  lyric,  inspired  perhaps  in  a 
moment  of  deepest  despondency,  the  outpouring  of  a  heart  wrung 
by  disappointment,  by  unrequited  hopes,  the  cry  of  a  deeply  sensi 
tive  soul  from  out  of  its  inmost  depths,  finds  such  sympathetic 
response  in  so  many  other  hearts,  is  so  tenderly  soothing  withal, 
as  to  have  become  not  only  one  of  the  treasures  of  the  language, 
but  one  of  its  greatest  boons  to  poor  suffering  humanity. 

What  else  could  possibly  have  inspired  such  an  unfailing  interest 
in  that  most  unpretentious  dwelling  in  which  the  precocious  and  bashful 
lad  passed  his  earliest  youth  ?  What  else  but  that  talismanic  touch 
upon  the  hearts  of  men  that  can  set  every  secret  chord  vibrating,  could 
every  year  draw  so  many  pilgrims  merely  to  gaze  upon  the  dull  and 
senseless  wood  of  a  very  commonplace  old  house  at  East  Hampton  - 
the  home  of  John  Howard  Payne  ? 

In  looking  at  it  the  words  "  Re  it  ever  so  humble"  instantly  sug 
gest  themselves.  In  looking  at  it  we  are  again  forcibly  reminded  ot 
that  secret,  that  unexplained  affinity  existing  between  the  houses  men 
have  lived  in  and  the  men  themselves  —  their  lives  and  fortunes.  It  is 
as  if  some  eternal  law  forbade  putting  the  twain  asunder.  Do  what 
we  will  we  can  never  rid  ourselves  of  the  notion  that  "  les  abseus  sont 


EARLY  HOME    OF  JOHiV  HOWARD   PAYNE  177 

7#."      To   some   extent  we   do   hold   communion   with   their  departed 
spirits. 

John  Howard  Payne  was  what  the  world  calls  a  genius  :  he  was 
more  than  this  ;  he  was  a  most  precocious  genius.  As  inevitably 
follows,  he  was  flattered,  overpraised,  caressed  to  that  extent  that  a 
much  older  and  wiser  head  than  his  might  have  been  turned 


The 


THE    EARLY    HOME    OF    JOHN    HOWARD    PAYNE. 

precocious  flower  faded  before  its  full  maturity.  But  of  what  he  failed 
to  achieve  as  actor,  author,  or  critic  —  fame  and  fortune  —  fame  at  least 
came  to  him  with  the  stroke  of  the  pen  that  wrote  "  Home,  Sweet 
Home  ;  "  and  had  he  been  as  worldly  wise  as  he  was  gifted,  his  for 
tune  would  have  been  made  also  then  and  there. 

Is  the  world  really  any  larger  than  a  teacup?     Does  not  the  great 
master  wisely  say,  "  One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin  "  ? 


178  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Truly,  we  cannot  choose  but  think  so  when  we  find  all  fashionable 
London,  yes,  and  unfashionable  too,  applauding"  and  singing  words  sug 
gested  by  the  thoughts  of  this  homeliest  of  old  houses,  in  an  obscure 
spot  of  a  distant  land,  that  no  one  had  ever  heard  of.  Payne  sang  to 
this,  his  own  dear  old  home,  as  to  something  most  sacred  to  him.  His 

o 

mind  and  heart  had  wandered  back  to  old  Long  Island's  yellow  sands, 
to  the  village  where  he  had  played  as  a  boy.  Within  a  week  all  Lon 
don  was  singing  that  same  refrain  of  4'  Home,  Sweet  Home"  for  what 
it  appealed  to  in  each  separate  individual.  In  every  one  it  awoke  the 
sweetest  and  purest  emotions.  You  cannot  bring  together  to-day,  were 
it  in  the  most  remote  corner  of  earth,  any  assemblage  of  English- 
speaking  people  who  do  not  know  by  heart  the  words  of  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  or  who  would  not  sing  it,  not  all  with  steady  voices,  but 
with  greater  feeling  and  unction  than  any  other  song  in  the  language. 
Payne's  mortal  body  long  lay  in  the  burning  sands  of  far-away  Morocco, 
and  its  final  return  to  its  native  soil  was  in  direct  answer  to  that 
deathless  plea  for  home.  Many  is  the  rude  company  it  has  hushed  into 
solemn  silence  ;  many  the  dreary  bivouac  it  has  solaced  and  cheered  ; 
many  the  lump  that  has  risen  in  the  throat  as  the  tremulous  notes 
were  wafted  from  the  distant  camp  to  the  ears  of  the  solitary  sentinel 
as  he  paused  to  listen  on  his  perilous  round.  Who  would  not  rather 
have  written  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  than  the  blood-stirring  "  Mar- 
sellaise"  ? 

We,  too,  are  a  singing  people.  What  has  become  of  all  the  songs 
that  have  enjoyed  an  ephemeral  popularity  within  every  man's  recollec 
tion  ?  There  are  songs  that  belong  to  particular  epochs.  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home  "  is  for  all  time.  Even  our  John  Brown  song  has  fulfilled 
its  great  mission  ;  but  what  an  effect  that  song  had  upon  the  flagging 
spirits  of  the  soldiers  !  "  Let  me  write  the  songs,  and  I  care  not 
who  makes  the  laws,"  says  Beranger.  "  Us  chantent,  Us  payeront" 
exclaimed  Mazarin  triumphantly, 

We  do  not  design  to  reproduce  here  even  the  leading  incidents  of 
John  Howard  Payne's  well-known  career.  We  do  not  disguise  the 


EARLY  HOME    OF  JOHN  HOWARD   PAYNE  179 

feeling  we  have  that  but  for  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  he  would,  in  spite 
of  his  admitted  talents,  have  been  long  since  forgotten,  or  at  best 
remembered  only  by  his  own  generation.  His  greatest,  and  perhaps 
most  unconscious,  effort  contained  no  new  or  original  thought.  Home 
and  its  associations  had  been  the  theme  of  many  who  wrote  before 
Payne.  There  was  Goldsmith's  fine  apostrophe  to  an  old  home  :  - 

"  In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs,  —  and  God  has  given  my  share,  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last." 

Charles  Lamb,  the  gentle  Elia,  who  could  hardly  be  drawn  away 
from  his  own  loved  fireside  to  mix  with  the  great  world,  has  declared 
in  one  of  his  favorite  essays  that  "  Home  is  home,  though  it  is  never 
so  homely." 

Then  there  have  been  others  to  whom  Payne's  idea  may  per 
haps  have  furnished  the  keynote.  Woodworth's  "  Old  Oaken 
Bucket "  achieved  instantaneous  success  and  a  long  life  by  striking 
the  same  chord  in  a  slightly  different  key.  His 

*•  How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  " 

is  much  like  "There's  no  place  like  home." 

In  how  many  households  have  we  all  seen  the  familiar  motto, 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  conspicuously  placed  to  catch  the  eye!  It 
is  like  a  benediction  —  like  the  Oriental  salutation  of  "Peace  be 
unto  this  house ! "  Some  of  the  most  successful  plays  of  the  day 
owe  all  their  popularity  to  this  one  idea,  or  to  some  simple  inci 
dent  carrying  us  back  to  long-forgotten  scenes,  or  reviving  slum 
bering  memories.  Witness  the  wonderful  success  of  "The  Old 
Homestead,"  and  other  plays  of  that  simple  character.  Who  would 
have  believed  that  so  commonplace  an  act  as  that  of  calling  in  a 
cat  from  out-of-doors  would  have  "brought  clown  the  house"  as  it 
does  in  "The  County  Fair?" 


I  So  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

East  Hampton  consists  of  one  long  and  broad  street  bordered 
with  well-grown  trees.  The  street  is,  in  fact,  of  such  a  generous 
breadth  that  the  roadway  takes  up  but  a  span  of  it,  the  rest  being 
left  to  grow  grass,  on  which  the  geese  strut  and  scream  out  lustily 
at  the  stranger's  approach.  It  is  more  like  a  village  green  than  a 
street.  The  place,  having  been  originally  settled  by  New  England- 
ers,  is,  to  all  intents,  strictly  a  New  England  town,  retaining,  thanks 
to  its  isolation,  much  of  the  flavor  of  its  old  life.  One  frequently 
runs  up  against  some  well-known  name,  or  hears  some  delightfully 
archaic  word  let  slip  with  all  the  artless  confidence  of  long  usage. 
A  search  for  the  Payne  homestead  soon  revealed  the  suggestive  fact 
that  more  than  one  house  in  the  village  contended  for  the  honor  of 
being  the  actor-poet's  legitimate  birthplace.  The  old  lady  in  "  specs" 
and  close  cap,  who  peered  doubtfully  at  me  through  the  half-opened 
door,  remarked  absently  that  she  had  "  heerd  the  house  was  con- 
sider'bly  evaporated." 

"  By  fire,  ma'am?"  I  ventured  to  suggest  after  a  moment's 
reflection. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied;  "it  hain't  burned  down,  as  I  knows  on. 
It's  all  gone  to  wrack  and  ruin,  so  they  say."  % 

It  then  dawned  upon  me  that  she  had  meant  to  say  that  the 
house  was  much  dilapidated. 

The  village  was  laid  out  somewhat  after  the  French  manner, 
with  farms  running  off  from  the  great  street  toward  the  seashore 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  stretching  back  toward  the  bay.  It 
is  pitched  upon  ground  originally  belonging  to  the  powerful  Mon- 
tauk  tribe,  with  whom  the  English  settlers  very  wisely  established 
an  era  of  enduring  good  feeling  by  fair  dealing  and  considerate 
treatment,  so  that  peace  and  good  will  continued  to  subsist  between 
them  to  the  last.  It  was  well  that  these  white  men  chose  to  act 
up  to  the  Christian  rule  of  "  Live  and  let  live,"  rather  than  to  adopt 
for  their  guidance  the  unrelenting  one  that  where  the  two  races 
come  in  contact  one  must  be  hammer  and  the  other  anvil  ;  other- 


EARLY  HOME    OF  JOHN  HOWARD   PAYNE  181 

wise  East  Hampton  might  have  its  record  of  bloodshed  to  show 
instead  of  its  more  uneventful  one.  We  are  right  glad  of  this, 
because  a  different  story  would  infallibly  tend  to  disturb,  if  not 
extinguish  altogether,  that  delightful  atmosphere  of  harmony  with 
which  its  every  nook  and  corner  seems  filled  to  overflowing.  The 
benison  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  seems  to  have  descended  upon 
every  house  in  the  village.  Before  we  know  it  the  burden  of  that 
melodious  refrain  is  running  through  our  own  head.  We  find  our- 
self  humming  it.  We  are  in  quite  the  proper  frame  of  mind  to 
approach  the  home  which  gave  to  John  Howard  Payne  the  one 
idea  that  made  him  famous,  and  in  return  for  which  the  poet  has 
made  East  Hampton  immortal. 

Very  homely  indeed  is  the  gray  old  cottage  that  is  pointed  out 
to  you.  Its  hooded  front-door,  its  shingled  walls,  which  are  again 
become  the  fashion,  its  big  brick  chimney,  stalwart  and  strong, 
belong  to  hundreds  of  other  houses,  in  a  hundred  other  villages. 
Happily,  the  noiseless  footstep  of  time  has  passed  over  it,  and  left 
it  only  a  little  more  grizzled  than  when  Payne's  young  feet  pat 
tered  in  and  out  over  the  well-worn  threshold.  Upon  going  inside 
we  find  everything  as  plain  as  plain  can  be.  There  are  the  same 
worn  floors  and  stairways ;  there  is  the  same  monster  fireplace  in 
the  kitchen,  besmeared  with  a  back  of  velvety  soot,  where  the  boy 
Payne  so  often  sat  and  watched  the  antics  of  the  flames,  while  he 
was  painting  pictures  and  dreaming  the  dreams  of  youth.  Did  he 
ever  imagine  that  the  day  would  come  when  he  should  bitterly  put 
aside  "that  false  money"  reputation  as  a  worthless  thing,  and  sigh 
for  the  simple  pleasures  of  youth  he  had  once  tasted  here? 

The  house  itself  is  our  best  assurance  that  the  sentiment  of 
r'Home,  Sweet  Home "  had  no  luxurious  background.  There  is  no 
false  note  in  it. 

As  Charles  Lamb  has  so  truly  said,  "  Nothing  fills  a  child's 
mind  like  an  old  mansion."  Young  Payne's  must  have  been  unu 
sually  receptive  to  such  impressions.  And  then  we  are,  moreover,  so 


1 82  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

glad  to  think  that  his  boyhood's  home  must  have  been  a  happy 
one ;  because  with  every  turn  of  an  adverse  fortune,  like  a  ship 
beaten  out  of  her  course,  his  mind  always  turns  back  to  this  anti 
quated  homestead,  as  to  the  road  and  haven  where  all  is  calm, 
and  the  still  waters  flow  peacefully  on. 

1  have  seen  and  talked  with  people  who  knew  Payne  quite  inti 
mately.  One  person  told  me  of  an  incident  in  Payne's  career  that 
1  do  not  think  has  ever  got  into  print.  He  said  that  at  one  time 
the  versatile  actor  and  author  became  deeply  interested  in  the  study 
of  Indian  manners  and  customs;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  he  made 
a  long  journey  to  Georgia  for  the  purpose  of  getting  first-hand 
information.  His  eccentric  appearance  or  conduct  or  both  gave  rise 
to  suspicions  that  he  was  tampering  with  the  Cherokees,  among 
whom  he  was,  for  the  time,  a  visitor.  At  any  rate,  Payne  was 
arrested  by  the  Georgia  authorities,  and  held  a  prisoner  by  them 
until  he  could  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  himself,  when  he  was 
set  at  liberty. 

Another  gentleman  related  that  after  Payne's  father  removed  to 
Boston,  which  he  did  when  young  John  Howard  was  in  his  twelfth 
year,  the  lacl  developed  his  first  passion  for  the  stage,  often  visiting 
"Old  Federal  Street"  in  company  with  my  informant.  In  common 
parlance,  he  became  stage-struck.  At  this  time  Payne  organized  a 
number  of  boys  of  his  own  age  into  a  military  company,  called  the 
Federal  Band,  of  which  Payne  was  the  captain  and  animating  spirit. 
The  company  wore  a  neat  uniform  of  its  own,  though  it  was  com 
pelled  to  appear  on  parade  with  borrowed  muskets.  "  Payne,"  said 
my  friend,  who  was  then  over  eighty,  "  had  an  ambition  to  be  a 
soldier ;  we  boys  all  thought  him  destined  to  be  a  second  Bona 
parte  at  least.  You  ought  to  have  seen  us  when,  with  Payne  march 
ing  at  our  head,  we  turned  out  along  with  the  regular  militia  of  the 
city.  I  tell  you,  the  streets  of  Boston  weren't  big  enough  for  us." 

To  tear  down  that  old  house  would  be  almost  a  sacrilege. 
None  feel  so  deeply  what  the  word  home  means  as  the  homeless. 


EARLY  HOME    OE  JOHN  HOWARD   PAYNE  183 

We  raise  monuments  to  all  the  virtues  ;  let  us  keep  this  one  sacred 
to  that  little  heaven  upon  earth  which  shines  out  through  the  gloom 
of  so  many  darkened  lives,  like  a  beacon  light.  God  bless  all  our 
homes  !  To  every  father  and  mother  there  is  a  lesson  taught  here 
to  make  home  a  happy  one  for  their  children  ;  to  make  it  so  attrac 
tive  that  there  will  be  no  place  like  it,  rather  than  none  to  be  so 
eagerly  shunned ;  to  cultivate  the  domestic  virtues ;  to  instil  a 
knowledge  and  love  for  what  all  men  instinctively  turn  to  in  the 
dark  hour  of  trial  or  misfortune.  A  benison  upon  this  old  house ! 
We  feel  that  we  have  not  come  in  vain  to  renew  its  hallowed 
memories.  True,  there  is  little  enough  to  be  said  of  it ;  yet  we 
have  seen  it  and  are  content.  John  Howard  Payne  is  not  dead. 
So  long  as  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  shall  be  sung,  his  will  be  an 
ever-living  presence.  There  is  indeed 

"  Nothing  of    him  that  doth  fade, 
But  cloth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 


184  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


THE   OLD    INDIAN    HOUSE 

DEERFIELD,    MASS. 

A  MASTER  of  description  has  said  that  "  There  are  places  about 
which  one  forms  for  himself,  upon  a  name  more  or  less  sonorous,  a 
certain  fixed  idea."  It  is  a  fact  that  our  imagination  goes  before 
us  to  show  us  the  way,  sometimes  to  play  us  strange  tricks,  some 
times  to  the  increase  of  our  delight  a  hundredfold.  With  only  this 
one  uncertain  guide,  nothing  more,  —  for  I  had  in  this  instance  reso 
lutely  refused  to  look  at  either  books  of  travel  or  gazetteers,  —  I 
sought  my  idea,  my  picture  rather,  in  the  simple  name  of  Deer- 
field,  with  its  ready  suggestion  of  some  sheltered  and  romantic  nook 
to  which  those  timorous  denizens  of  the  forest  wilds  regularly  came 
down  to  feed  upon  the  sweetest  grasses  or  browse  upon  the  most 
tender  shoots.  I  pleased  myself  much  with  the  thought  that  some 
adventurous  hunter  had  first  seen  it  thus  from  some  neighboring 

height ;  that 

"The  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city," 

to  whom  the  report  of  the  death-dealing  rifle  was  as  yet  unknown, 
had  indeed  bequeathed  it  its  name  of  peace. 

Now  let  me  try  to  describe  the  reality  as  I  saw  it  on  one  of 
those  soft,  sunny  days  of  early  spring,  when  leaves  are  first  green. 
The  train  had  left  me  at  Greenfield,  that  incomparable  village  so 
luxuriously  stretched  out  upon  its  mountain  terrace,  from  which, 
like  a  Sybarite,  it  overlooks  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut  far  down 
to  the  deep  cleft  between  Mount  Tom  and  Mount  Holyoke,  which 
stand  there  like  two  giants  guarding  a  pass. 

The  sight  was  one  to  delight  even  the  most  jaded  traveller  ;  so 
I  cannot  tell  how  long  I  stood  there  looking  at  it  in  charmed 


THE    OLD   INDIAN  HOUSE  185 

silence.  At  last  it  came  to  me  that  this  was  not  my  valley.  In 
truth,  my  imagination  had  so  far  cheated  me  that  the  half  had  not 
been  told.  Surely  this  must  be  some  little  corner  of  Eden  left  here 
below  just  to  show  man  how  surpassing  fair  the  antique  world  had 
been  before  his  fall.  Before  me  opened  a  great  oval  basin  between 
oblique  mountain  walls,  one  side  all  light,  the  other  all  shadow, 
their  feet  buried  in  the  valley,  their  gray  heads  reclining  upon  the 
breasts  of  loftier  heights  behind.  Everywhere  a  light  vesture  of 
grayish-green,  so  thin  as  to  seem  almost  transparent,  was  stealing 
up  toward  the  summits.  These  patriarchs  had  the  appearance  of 
being  seated  in  their  chairs  of  granite,  facing  toward  each  other, 
gravely  and  silently  watching  the  passing  of  one  race  of  men  after 
another,  as  we  might  a  procession  of  laborious  ants. 

Beneath  me,  like  a  tessellated  floor,  lay  long  miles  of  beautiful 
prairie  land,  warm  with  vivid  yellow  tints,  as  if  streaked  with 
patches  of  sunshine,  through  which,  now  here  now  there,  came  the 
gleam  and  sparkle  of  a  winding  river.  That  should  be  the  Deer- 
field,  just  come  down  out  of  the  mountains  at  my  right,  and  slack 
ening  its  pace  on  entering  this  great  audience  hall  of  nature.  The 
Connecticut  runs  invisible  at  your  left,  along  the  bases  of  the  hills, 
as  if  seeking  an  outlet  there,  but  finding  none.  Nearest  me,  down 
in  the  valley,  I  saw  what  seemed  an  extensive  and  luxuriant  grove 
growing  in  the  midst  of  this  prairie.  Above  this  grove  was  thrust 
one  solitary  white  spire,  straight,  stiff,  and  pointed,  like  the  spike 
on  a  grenadier's  helmet ;  and,  on  looking  closer,  the  glimmer  of 
white  walls  showed  here  and  there  among  the  thick-set  trees,  like 
a  brood  of  chickens  peeping  out  from  under  their  mother's  protect 
ing  wings.  They  told  me  that  was  Old  Deerfield. 

And  so  on,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  valley  is  strewn 
with  villages.  Farms  succeed  farms.  Nature  has  been  lavish,  man 
prosperous.  Why  it  was  that  fate  should  have  driven  one  race  out 
of  this  Eden  to  admit  another,  who  knew  it  not,  is  not  given  us 
to  know  ;  but  we  do  understand  (and  are  reminded  of  the  slothful 


1 86  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

servant  in  the  parable)  that  the  native  Indian  could  never  have 
brought  about  what  \ve  now  see. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  so  short  is  the  distance,  I  alighted  from 
the  train  at  Old  Deerfield  Station  and  walked  down  the  hill  into 
the  village.  It  has  that  neat  and  thrifty  look  common  to  all  our 
New  England  villages.  Its  principal  and  only  street  I  found  com 
pletely  embowered  beneath  the  overarching  branches  of  a  double 
rank  of  magnificent  elms,  so  that  one  walked  up  and  down  in  a 
beautiful  arcade  of  living  green.  This  was  my  grove  ;  and  this  tall 
church-steeple  my  spike.  As  for  those  elms,  they  deserve  to  be 
celebrated  by  some  disciple  of  Tom  Hood.  I  renounce  the  attempt 
in  advance. 

In  company  with  the  Hon.  George  Sheldon,  who  is  the  deposi 
tary  of  all  the  local  traditions,  I  visited  all  the  places  of  historic 
interest,  both  in  and  out  of  the  village.  I  first  asked  to  be  shown 
the  spot  where  the  old  Sheldon  house,  or  as  it  is  still  familiarly 
called,  the  "  Old  Indian  House,"  had  formerly  stood.  The  building 
itself  was  torn  down  in  the  year  1848  by  its  owner,  on  account  of 
its  alleged  unfitness  for  further  occupancy.  It  was  then  supposed 
to  be  something  like  one  hundred  and  seventy  years  old.  Here  is 
its  history  :  — 

Those  hardy  pioneers  who  first  pitched  their  lonely  cabins  still 
farther  down  this  valley  were  not  long  in  discovering  it  to  be  the 
garden  spot  of  New  England.  At  this  time  it  was  well  peopled 
by  the  native  inhabitants,  who  extended  to  the  new-comers  a  hos 
pitable  welcome.  As  step  by  step  the  white  men  ascended  its 
course,  sowing  in  their  march  the  seeds  of  hamlets  and  villages,  no 
other  spot  seemed  to  offer  such  manifold  advantages  as  this  one, 
where  the  junction  of  the  lesser  stream  with  the  greater  river 
marked  out  at  once  a  geographical  boundary,  a  strategic  position, 
and  a  natural  line  of  defence. 

Accordingly,  a  band  of  stout  yeomen  from  eastern  Massachu 
setts  settled  here  in  the  year  1670.  For  a  few  years  they  lived 


THE    OLD   INDIAN  HOUSE 


I87 


side  by  side  with  their  more  numerous  and  more  savage  neighbors 
in  apparent  harmony  and  good  will.  The  Indians  had  their  village, 
the  white  men  theirs.  The  Indians  hunted  and  fished  much,  but 
sowed  little  ;  the  white  men  ploughed,  sowed,  and  reaped  like  their 
fathers.  At  length  the  uprising  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket  cast  a  fire 
brand  among  these  Indians.  Philip's  emissaries  had  long  been  busy 
among  them.  Presently  they  grew  sullen,  moody,  watchful.  Then 
the  whites  attempted  to  disarm  them.  They  resisted.  This  was  the 


THE    OLD    INDIAN    HOUSE,    DEERFIELD,    MASS. 

signal  for  that  series  of  bloody  encounters  which  laid  waste  the 
whole  valley.  Deerfield  was  depopulated.  The  Indians  fought  like 
fiends  incarnate  ;  the  settlers  fought  for  their  lives. 

In  the  end  the  settlers  remained  the  masters.  The  struggle 
rolled  away  from  the  desolated  valley,  leaving  its  traces  on  every 
hand.  Once  more  the  decimated  white  men  gathered  about  their 
broken  hearthstones.  With  a  courage  that  commands  our  admira 
tion  they  set  about  rebuilding  their  homes.  Taking  counsel  of 


1 88  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

their  dear-bought  experience,  they  surrounded  their  little  village 
with  a  stout  stockade,  kept  watch  and  ward,  concerted  signals  with 
their  neighbors,  kept  their  trusty  muskets  loaded  and  primed,  and 
in  all  things  behaved  like  men  who  knew  and  realized  that  their 
lonely  outpost  was  most  truly  the  post  of  danger. 

Time  wore  on  uneventfully.  The  remembrance  of  past  horrors 
was  fast  being  effaced.  The  village  grew  and  prospered  apace.  It 
must  have  been  during  this  interval  of  peace  that  the  Sheldon 
house  was  built.  It  stood  close  by  the  side  of  the  little  village 
church,  whose  bell  was  never  silent  of  a  Sabbath  morn.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  largest  house  in  the  village.  At  any  rate,  it  was  of  unusual 
size  and  strength.  Its  second  story  projected  out  over  the  first, 
after  the  manner  of  many  of  the  houses  of  this  early  time.  The 
frame  was  hewed  out  of  stout  timber ;  the  walls  between  joists 
were  filled  in  with  bricks.  When  the  family  retired  at  night  doors 
and  windows  would  be  fast  bolted  and  barred.  Captain  Sheldon 
and  his  wife  slept  in  the  east  room,  on  the  lower  floor,  while  his 
son  and  his  son's  wife  occupied  the  long  chamber  up-stairs,  which 
ran  the  whole  length  of  the  house. 

King  William's  War  broke  out  fiercely,  and  with  it  came  that 
horrible  massacre  at  Schenectady  which  ought,  it  would  seem,  to 
have  opened  the  eyes  of  people  situated  like  those  of  Deerfield  to 
their  own  danger.  The  situation  of  these  two  places  as  respects 
their  complete  isolation  was  almost  precisely  similar.  Their  history 
was  destined  to  be  as  like  as  two  leaves  taken  from  the  same 
book. 

After  a  short  cessation,  hostilities  again  broke  out  in  Queen 
Anne's  time,  and  again  the  frontier  settlements  were  warned  to  be 
on  their  guard.  In  the  Old  Country  it  was  France  against  Eng 
land  ;  in  the  New  World  it  was  colonist  against  colonist.  Canada 
was  the  arsenal  whence  numerous  war-parties  were  launched  on 
their  murderous  inroads  against  our  exposed  frontiers.  The  long 
distance  stretching  out  between  precluded  the  possibility  of  timely 


THE    OLD   INDIAN  HOUSE  189 

warning  being  given.  Often  the  deadly  blow  fell  unheralded.  All, 
therefore,  that  the  frontiersmen  could  do  was  to  put  their  little  vil 
lage  in  the  best  state  of  defence  possible,  post  their  sentinels,  keep 
their  powder  dry,  and  exercise  the  most  sleepless  vigilance.  And 
that  was  exactly  what  the  infatuated  inhabitants  of  Deerfield  did 
not  do. 

While  the  settlers  were  thus  resting  in  the  most  profound  secu 
rity,  all  unknown  to  them  the  governor  of  Canada  was  setting  on 
foot  one  of  his  murderous  expeditions  against  them.  The  historian 
Charlevoix  says  it  consisted  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  men,  com 
manded  by  one  De  Rouville ;  but  other  writers  place  the  number 
at  a  much  higher  figure.  Probably  the  Jesuit  historian  left  out  of 
account  the  Indians  who  joined  De  Rouville  later.  It  was  a  fright 
ful  march  to  look  forward  to.  Notwithstanding  the  deep  repugnance 
we  feel  toward  the  actors  in  this  abominable  tragedy,  it  is  impossible 
to  withhold  our  admiration  for  the  warlike  hardihood  that  prompted 
it.  If  the  destroying  angel  had  followed  in  their  footsteps,  instead 
of  leading  their  van,  we  should  find  it  hard  to  repress  an  emotion 
of  gratitude ;  but  divested  of  all  its  horrors,  it  must  stand  as  an 
example  of  what  men  will  do  and  dare  even  in  the  worst  of  causes. 

The  march  had,  of  course,  to  be  performed  on  snow-shoes. 
Those  accustomed  to  brave  the  rigors  of  a  northern  winter  need 
not  be  told  that  it  was  long  and  painful.  At  each  halting-place, 
sheltered  from  the  cutting  blasts  by  burying  themselves  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  these  hardy  rangers  would  scrape  out  shallow 
burrows  in  the  snow,  in  which  they  lay  down,  wrapped  in  their  blan 
kets,  until  called  up  to  resume  their  march.  A  few  dead  boughs, 
hastily  gathered,  smouldered  at  their  feet.  The  bearded  Canadian 
and  painted  savage  shared  this  wretched  bivouac  together.  Over  hill 
and  mountain,  across  forest  and  vale,  they  came  steadily  on.  One 
would  have  said  that  the  thirst  for  vengeance  kept  their  blood  warm. 

The  winter  of  1703-04  was  so  cold  that  all  the  streams  watering 
this  valley  were  early  frozen  over,  with  the  exception  of  Green  River, 


1 90  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

which  has  a  rapid  current.  A  war- party  could,  therefore,  as  easily 
cross  these  rivers  on  the  ice  as  on  dry  land.  There  had  also  been 
an  unusual  fall  of  snow,  which  had  drifted  up  against  the  palisades 
of  the  fort,  at  the  exposed  north  side,  in  so  many  places  that  each 
big  drift  was  an  open  postern,  so  that  the  village  could  be  entered 
with  all  ease.  These  sinister  conditions  would  seem  to  have  called 
for  redoubled  vigilance,  yet  they  seem  to  have  passed  unregarded. 
The  ground  enclosed  within  the  stockade  amounted  in  all  to  about 
twenty  acres,  with  perhaps  twice  that  number  of  houses  separated 
by  garden-plots,  more  or  less  extensive.  The  Sheldon  house  was 
situated  near  the  north-west  angle,  where  the  snow  lay  deepest. 
Besides  the  regular  inhabitants  some  twenty  enlisted  soldiers  of  the 
colony  were  quartered  among  the  different  houses,  which  they  were 
to  aid  in  defending,  in  case  of  an  attack,  while  ordinarily  furnishing 
sentinels  by  day  and  night. 

At  the  same  hour  when  the  mothers  of  Deerfield  were  hushing 
their  little  children  to  sleep,  little  dreaming  they  were  lulling  them 
to  that  slumber  which  knows  no  waking,  De  Rouville  was  going  into 
camp,  in  the  concealment  of  a  pine  wood  only  two  miles  north  of  the 
village.  From  this  point  he  would  have  first  to  cross  the  Deer- 
field, —  an  easy  thing  to  do  on  the  ice,  —  and  next  to  advance  for 
a  long  distance  over  the  open  plain,  at  the  risk  of  being  discovered 
sooner  or  later  by  the  sentinels  on  the  walls. 

Not  daring  to  light  fires,  the  invaders  shivered  through  the  in 
tervening  hours.  Finding  all  quiet,  De  Rouville  aroused  his  men 
shortly  after  midnight  for  the  assault.  Like  shadows  they  stole  out 
of  the  darkness  of  the  woods.  As  the  crust  was  now  strong  enough 
to  bear  them  up,  they  left  their  snow-shoes  behind  them,  marching, 
however,  with  the  utmost  caution,  and  halting  frequently  to  listen. 
It  was  needless.  All  was  quiet.  The  faithless  guards,  in  their 
turn,  had  left  their  posts  at  almost  the  same  moment  that  the 
enemy  had  left  his  encampment.  It  was  as  if  the  unsuspecting  vic 
tims  had  been  delivered  into  the  assassins'  hands,  both  gagged  and 
bound, 


THE    OLD   INDIAN  HOUSE  191 

Early  in  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  the  29th  of  February,  1703-04, 
a  clay  long  to  be  remembered  in  the  annals  of  Deerfield,  in  the 
gray  darkness  that  precedes  the  dawn,  the  head  of  De  Rouville's 
column  reached  the  fort  unperceived  and  unchallenged.  The  village 
inside  lay  wrapped  in  the  most  profound  quiet.  Easily  mounting 
over  the  snowdrifts,  the  assailants  had  only  to  drop  down  on  the 
other  side  until  all  were  collected  within  the  fort.  They  then 
rushed  on  to  the  assault. 

Scattering  themselves  about  in  small  parties,  so  as  to  cut  off 
escape  from  one  house  to  another,  the  wretches  began  a  simulta 
neous  onslaught  upon  each  house.  While  one  or  two  hacked  away 

at  the  doors  with    their    hatchets,  the    rest    stood    with    cocked    o-uns 

& 

ready  to  shoot  down  the  first  of  the  inmates  who  should  show  him 
self.  The  very  first  warning  that  the  terrified  citizens  had  of  what 
was  upon  them  came  from  the  storm  of  blows  raining  clown  upon 
their  doors,  and  the  frightful  outcries  with  which  the  assailants 
accompanied  their  destructive  work. 

In  five  minutes  an  indescribable  uproar  raged  throughout  the  village. 

One  of  these  bands  assaulted  the  Rev.  Mr.  Williams's  house,  and 
another  that  of  his  neighbor,  Captain  Sheldon.  Well  for  him  the 
Captain  himself  was  not  at  home  ;  but  his  wife  was,  and  she,  poor 
soul,  was  startled  from  her  sleep  by  that  unearthly  din  at  her  door, 
which,  fortunately,  being  thick  and  strongly  barred,  stoutly  resisted 
every  attempt  to  force  it  open.  Rendered  furious  at  being  stopped 
by  a  door,  the  assailants  then  set  to  work  upon  it  with  their  toma 
hawks  to  see  if  they  could  not  split  it  open  in  that  way.  Though 
the  house  is  gone,  the  door  remains  to  this  day  to  attest  the  fury 
of  the  blows  dealt  it  at  that  moment.  A  hole  was  soon  hacked 
large  enough  to  admit  the  muzzle  of  a  musket.  The  assailants 
peered  through  it.  Some  one  was  seen  stirring  in  the  right-hand 
lower  room.  Instantly  a  musket  was  thrust  in  and  fired.  The  bullet 
struck  poor  Mrs.  Sheldon  as  she  was  in  the  act  of  rising  from  her 
bed,  and  she  fell  back  upon  it  a  corpse. 


192  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

Meantime  the  son  and  wife  up-stairs  were  also  awakened  by  the 
tumult,  and  must  have  heard  the  fatal  shot  below.  Realizing  their 
peril,  they  took  the  only  way  of  escape  open  to  them  by  throwing 
open  the  window  of  their  chamber,  and  jumping  from  it  to  the 
ground  beneath.  Sheldon  fell  on  his  feet  without  sustaining  any 
hurt,  and  ran  for  the  nearest  woods,  which  he  fortunately  gained  in 
safety.  The  woman  was  less  fortunate.  Her  ankle  was  sprained  by 
the  fall,  so  that,  being  rendered  helpless,  the  marauders  soon  laid* 
hands  upon  her.  The  husband  kept  on  to  the  next  settlement  be 
low,  where  he  gave  the  alarm. 

Having  by  this  time  gained  an  entrance  to  the  house,  the 
assailants  converted  it  into  a  depot  for  the  reception  of  their  nu 
merous  prisoners.  All  the  rest,  except  one,  were  set  on  fire,  and  were 
fast  being  reduced  to  ashes  along  with  the  ghastly  evidences  of  the 
morning's  bloody  work,  which  the  butchers  thus  left  the  flames  and 
the  wolves  to  complete.  Forty-seven  dead  bodies  were  left  on  this 
funeral  pyre ;  one  hundred  and  twelve  persons  were  marched  off 
captives.  Woe  to  those  who  should  lag  behind  ! 

Charlevoix  says  that  the  marauders  lost  only  three  Frenchmen 
and  a  few  savages  (as  if  their  loss  were  a  matter  of  too  small 
account  to  give  numbers),  but  he  adds  that  De  Rouville  himself 
was  wounded.  Others  place  the  loss  at  thirty  men. 

All  the  resistance  met  with  here  seems  to  have  come  from  the 
one  house  just  mentioned,  which  only  seven  brave  men  successfully 
defended  against  all  comers.  Rev.  Mr  Williams,  one  of  those  taken, 
relates  how  a  chief  who  had  led  the  assault  upon  his  house  was 
instantly  killed  by  a  shot  from  this  one,  which  he  says  stood  next 
to  his  own.  Had  there  been  half  a  dozen  like  it,  there  might  have 
been  a  far  different  story  to  tell. 

The  alarm,  however,  spread  to  the  scattered  farms  below,  from 
which  a  number  of  settlers  hurried  to  the  burning  village,  eager  to 
avenge  the  slaughter  of  their  friends  and  kindred.  They  were  in 
time  to  drive  out  a  few  stragglers  who  had  stayed  behind  plunder- 


THE    OLD   INDIAN  HOUSE  193 

ing,  after  the  main  body  had  moved  off  toward  the  river  with  their 
prisoners  and  booty.  Upon  hearing  the  firing,  De  Rouville  turned 
back  to  the  assistance  of  his  laggards  ;  and  a  lively  skirmish  ensued 
between  him  and  the  settlers  who  had  advanced  beyond  the  village, 
but  were  now  obliged  to  fall  back  again.  De  Rouville  then  re 
sumed  his  retreat  in  a  leisurely  manner  toward  Canada. 

The  French  historian  treats  this  sacking  of  Deerfield  as  if  it  was 
some  great  and  glorious  exploit.  We  must  confess  that  we  see  very 
little  more  heroism  in  it  than  we  would  in  the  descent  of  a  pack 
of  famishing  wolves  upon  a  sheepfolcl.  To  make  these  creeping 
miscreants  appear  in  any  other  light  than  that  of  so  many  midnight 
assassins  is  to  turn  honorable  warfare  into  a  mockery.  He  says 
exultantly  and  truly  that  a  great  many  people  were  killed.  That 
fact  is  incontestable.  They  were  killed  either  in  their  beds  or  at 
the  moment  of  jumping  out  of  them  half  dazed  and  wholly  defence 
less.  In  this  plight  they  were  knocked  on  the  head  one  after 
another,  until  every  house  was  a  shambles.  What  else  is  this  but 
downright  butchery  ?  We  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  savages, 
except  that  they  were  savages ;  but  in  those  Frenchmen  who  formed 
two-thirds  of  the  attacking  force  we  recognize  that  same  furcur  de 
sang,  that  same  taint  of  wolfish  ferocity,  as  in  the  savage.  Whether 

O    '  J    '  O 

innocent  blood  ran  unchecked  under  a  De  Rouville  or  against  the 
plighted  faith  of  a  Montcalm,  it  is  the  same  hideous  story  from 
beginning  to  end ;  everywhere  rises  in  our  ears  the  same  terrible 
slogan  of  "  Kill !  kill !  "  which  has  re-echoed  from  St.  Bartholomew 
to  the  Terror,  and  from  the  Terror  to  the  Commune.  At  Deerfield 
none  were  spared  until  this  brutal  thirst  for  blood  had  first  been 
fully  glutted.  To  call  De  Rouville's  band  soldiers  were  a  libel  upon 
the  name.  Let  us  call  them  common  cut-throats. 

Voltaire  says  that  Frenchmen  are  not  tigers,  but  monkeys.  W7e 
have  our  own  ideas  on  that  head. 


194"  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


THE   OLD   GOTHIC    HOUSE 

RAVMIAM,    MASS. 

Tins  very  quaint  specimen  of  the  homes  of  our  fathers  —  a  veri 
table  house  of  seven  gables  it  is  too  —  long  ago  obtained  a  facti 
tious  celebrity  through  the  misdirected  assiduity  of  the  early  historian 
of  Ray n ham,  the  Rev.  Peres  Fobes.  That  gentleman  having  claimed 
for  it  an  age  going  far  back  of  Philip's  War,  proceeded,  out  of 
hand,  to  connect  it  with  a  series  of  blood-curdling  incidents  of  that 
war,  notwithstanding  the  vane  affixed  to  the  eastern  gable  of  the 
house  bore  on  its  honest  face  the  plain  elate  of  the  year  1700,  thus 
giving  to  the  story  what  our  worthy  friend  Touchstone  would  have 
called  the  lie  direct. 

This  false  glamour  surrounding  it  for  so  many  generations,  certainly 
through  no  fault  of  its  own,  converted  the  house  in  the  eyes  of  all  who 
passed  it  into  a  veritable  chamber  of  horrors.  Its  memories  evoked 
either  a  shrug  or  a  shudder.  Its  traditions  were  perpetuated  with 
the  most  religious  exactness  from  father  to  son.  Listen  to  one  or 
two  of  the  specific  facts  set  forth  by  the  reverend  narrator  :  - 

"  In  the  cellar  under  this  house  was  deposited,  for  a  considera 
ble  length  of  time,  the  head  of  King  Philip  ;  for  it  seems  that  even 
Philip  himself  shared  the  fate  of  kings  :  he  was  decollated,  and  his 
head  carried  about  and  shown  as  a  curiosity  by  one  Alderman,  the 
Indian  who  shot  him." 

And  again,  in  the  same  convincing  vein  :  "  Under  the  doorsteps 
of  the  same  building  now  lie  buried  the  bones  of  two  unfortunate 
young  women  who  in  their  flight  here  were  shot  clown  by  the 
Indians,  and  their  blood  was  seen  to  run  quite  across  the  road." 


THE    OLD    GOTHIC  HOUSE  195 

These  thrilling  tales  did  not  lack  for  a  certain  air  of  probability. 
All  our  little  world,  at  least,  has  heard  of  King  Philip,  that  re 
doubted  avenger  of  his  race  who  chose  death  before  dishonor ;  and 
many  of  us  have  also  heard  of  the  Leonards  of  Taunton,  who  are 
so  intimately  associated  with  this  spot  of  ground,  and  who,  more 
over,  have  so  often  been  described  to  us  as  having  gained  the  fast 


RUINS  OF  THE  LEONARD  FORGE,  RAYNHAM,  MASS. 

friendship  of  that  mighty  chieftain  —  a  friendship  formed  by  his 
making  the  forge  a  halting-place  as  he  passed  up  and  down  between 
Mount  Hope,  where  he  lived,  and  the  Fowling  Pond,  a  mile  or  so 
beyond  the  forge,  where  he  came  to  shoot  ducks,  geese,  and  brant 
once  or  twice  every  year.  We  may  remark  in  passing  that  even 
presidents  of  the  United  States  are  not  averse  to  seeking  relaxation 
from  official  cares  in  this  way. 


196  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

On  these  occasions  the  master  of  the  forge  had  always  treated 
Philip  like  a  man  and  a  brother,  as  it  was  certainly  quite  for  his 
interest  to  do  ;  nor  did  the  so-called  barbarian  forget  to  repay  kind 
ness  with  kindness  when  the  outstanding  debt  fell  due. 

So  far  certainly  the  old  story  is  plausible  enough.  But  through 
the  persistent  and  intelligent  research  of  Mr.  Elisha  C.  Leonard, 
himself  one  of  the  old  stock,  we  now  know  the  exact  truth  about 
that  Gothic  House  —  that,  in  short,  it  did  not  go  much  farther  back 
than  the  date  assigned  to  it  on  the  vane.  All  the  old  cobwebs 
have  been  swept  away,  and  the  situation  completely  renovated  and 
restored.  Not  only  did  the  local  historian  efface  all  the  gory  tradi 
tions  attaching  to  it  with  unsparing  hand,  but,  in  the  spirit  of  that 
excellent  maxim  which  declares  that  4i  nothing  is  settled  that  is  not 
settled  right,"  he  has  given  us  the  true  story  complete  in  all  its 
parts  and  in  all  its  simplicity. 

The  simple  fact  is,  that  one  house  had  been  taken  for  another. 
In  destroying  an  illusion,  incrusted  by  the  lapse  of  years,  the  con 
scientious  investigator  did  not  fail  to  put  his  hand  upon  the  rightful 
claimant ;  that  is  to  say,  upon  the  house  built  by  or  for  James 
Leonard,  and  occupied  by  him  during  the  sanguinary  scenes  of  King- 
Philip's  War.  There  are  so  many  of  these  Leonards  that  we  find  it 
difficult  to  marshal  them  properly  before  us  without  getting  them 
mixed  up  ;  but  this  James  the  First  is  our  man  for  a  thousand  pounds. 

The  story  of  the  Taunton  Iron  Works  has  been  told  down  to 
the  minutest  detail.  Something  has  teen  added  of  late  through  the 
discovery  of  a  certain  old  ledger,  from  which  Captain  J.  W.  D.  Hall 
has  published  some  very  interesting  extracts.  These  works,  or 
"  bloomerie "  as  they  were  commonly  called,  long  constituted  not 
only  the  most  important  feature  of  ancient  Taunton,  but  of  all  the 
country  round  ;  and  from  far  and  wide  they  were  resorted  to  for 
the  products  of  their  smutty  forges.  Who  can  doubt  that  the  big 
trip-hammers  were  in  themselves  objects  of  never- failing  wonder  to 
Philip  and  his  greasy  Wampanoags,  as  they  sat  and  smoked  and 


THE    OLD    GOTHIC  HOUSE  197 

watched  them  by  the  hour,  or  that  their  rude   understandings  could 

o 

fail  to   invest    the    master    of   such   a   tremendous    power  with  some 
thing  a  little  beyond  the  attributes  of  common   men  ! 

Some  of  the  referred-to  extracts  afford  a  clear  insight  of  the 
important  part  that  this  "bloomerie"  sustained  toward  the  commu 
nity  at  large.  It  not  only  forged  them  bar-iron  ;  it  was  their  mint, 
for  it  furnished  their  actual  circulating  medium.  Witness  one  or 
two  illustrations  :  — 

"  TAUNTON,  April  i,   1700. 

"CAPT.   LEONARD,  —  I  desire  you  to  give   John    King  credit   upon  works   book 

for  20  shilling  of  iron  as  money. 

"Your  friend  to  serve, 

"JOHN  HALL." 

Here  is  a  very  curious  order  from  Rev.  Samuel  Danforth,  the 
fourth  minister  of  Taunton,  to  pay  his  '4  servant  mayd"  in  the  ac 
cepted  circulating  medium  of  the  times  :  — 

"To  CAPTAIN  THOMAS  LEONARD: 

"Sr  I  would  pray  you  to  pay  Elizabeth  Gilbert  (my  late  servant  mayd)  the  sum 
of  thirty  shillings  in  iron  at  18  sh.  per  Cwt.  to  her  or  her  order  —  c^r  place  it  to 

my  account  ***  pr  yr  friend  and  servant 

"  SAML  DANFORTH. 
"Dated  TANTON,  March  n,  1703-4." 

Here  is  one  of  his  business  orders  :  Rev.  Mr.  Danforth  wants 
iron  to  buy  nails. 

"To  CAPT.  THOMAS  LEONARD,   in  Tanton  . 

"  Sr  I  have  got  Thomas  Willis  to  go  to  Bridgewater  to  fetch  me  some  nails  from 
Mr.  Mitchell's  this  night  :  &  pray  to  let  him  have  200  of  iron  to  carry  with  him 
to  pay  for  them:  of  which,  100  on  acct  of  Edward  Richmond;  53.  worth  on  acct 
of  Thomas  Linkon,  son  of  John  Linkon,  by  virtue  of  his  note  herewith  sent  you  : 
for  the  remainder  I  may  by  yr  leave  be  yr  debtor  for  a  while  till  I  have  another 
note  from  some  other  to  ballance  against  it  :  &  remain  yr  obliged 

"  SAML  DANFORTH. 
"  26  8mo.,   I7O2.1' 


All    we    can    say   is,    that    specie  must  have  been   a   scarce    com 
modity  indeed,  when  people  had    to    resort  to  such  shifts  and  turns 


198  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

in  order  to  carry  on  the  common  every-day  affairs  of  life.  Yet,  so 
far  as  we  can  judge,  it  does  not  seem  to  have  involved  any  particu 
lar  hardship.  But  what  would  the  smart  "  servant  mayde  "  of  to-day 
think  at  being  tendered  her  weekly  wages  in  a  lump  of  iron  bigger 
than  she  could  lift !  For  these  people  it  most  assuredly  was  an 
iron  age. 

When  they  hoisted  the  great  water-gate,  the  loud  and  monoto 
nous  thud,  thud,  of  the  ponderous  trip-hammers  could  be  distinctly 
heard  for  miles  around.  In  my  boyhood  days  I  have  often  listened 
to  the  sound,  on  a  still  day,  in  the  adjoining  town  of  Middleborough. 
To  the  farmers  of  those  days  it  grew  to  be  like  the  voice  of  an  old 
friend.  Far  different,  however,  was  the  ear-piercing  scream  of  the 
intrusive  locomotive,  which  set  all  his  teeth  on  edge,  his  creatures 
to  scampering  about  their  pastures  in  affright,  and  all  the  village 
dogs  to  howling  in  concert. 

The  first  steps  toward  setting  up  these  works  were  taken  as 
early  as  the  year  1652,  but  it  was  four  years  later  before  they  were 
in  working  order  for  the  manufacture  of  iron.  Their  location  here 
in  the  first  place  was  owing  to  the  finding  of  abundance  of  bog- 
iron  ore  in  the  neighboring  ponds  and  swamps,  from  which,  in  fact, 
the  forge  was  supplied  for  eighty  years  or  more.  The  site  is  on 
the  great  country  highway,  over  which  all  the  travel  then  passed 
between  Taunton  and  Raynham  Centre,  which  once  formed  part  of 
Old  Taunton.  After  many  ups  and  downs,  last  of  which  was  their 
conversion  into  an  anchor  forge,  the  works  were  finally  stopped  in 
1865,  after  a  continuous  life  of  more  than  two  hundred  years.  For 
eighteen  years  more  they  lay  idle.  The  old  work- sheds  were  then 
demolished  ;  so  that  when  I  saw  it  last  the  cumbrous  old  trip-ham 
mers,  the  dam,  and  the  foundation  walls,  alone  remained  of  the  once 
famous  Leonard  Forge. 

It  were  well  if  the  ruthless  hand  of  demolition  had  stopped  here. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  highway,  over  against  the  forge,  on 
an  island  formed  by  the  mill-stream  and  waste-way,  there  was  stand- 


THE    OLD    GOTHIC  HOUSE  199 

ing1  till  within  a  few  years  a  very  ancient  one-story,  gambrel-roofed 
house.  It  had  been  long-  abandoned  as  unfit  for  further  occupancy. 
One  entered  through  a  little  porch  in  front,  and  there  was  a  lean-to 
at  the  back.  ''Such  a  looking  house!"  was  the  common  exclama 
tion  of  every  passer-by.  It  had  been  gutted,  the  window-sashes 
removed  or  demolished,  leaving  the  floors  littered  with  nameless  rub 
bish.  Fit  tenement  for  owls  or  bats,  it  had  become  an  eye-sore,  a 
wayside  pauper,  a  ready-made  butt  for  all  the  shafts  of  cheap  ridi 
cule  or  inconsiderate  epithets,  usually  rounded  off  with  the  savage 
exclamation  of  "Why  don't  they  tear  it  down?" 

Such  was  its  condition  when  I  visited  it.  The  sight  was  not  a 
pleasant  one  to  look  at.  Now  and  then  a  stray  sunbeam  struggled 
through  the  lowering  sky  into  the  room,  to  be  followed  by  deeper 
shadows  that  filled  its  every  nook  and  corner  with  gloom.  They 
came  and  went  like  silent  mourners  taking  their  last  look  at  the 
departed.  I  hope  some  day  to  see  its  monument  erected.  It  is  a 
pleasant  spot,  overhung  by  trees.  The  clear  brook,  which  of  yore 
turned  the  groaning  mill-wheel,  glides  swiftly  beneath  a  rustic  bridge 
ere  it  tumbles  over  the  dam  below.  Strange  perversity  that  in  this 
busy  New  England  of  ours,  a  spot  once  full  of  the  joyous  bustle 
of  life  and  labor  should  have  thus  reverted  to  its  original  solitude! 

o 

Yet,  beyond  reasonable  question,  this  same  sorry-looking  wreck 
was  the  identical  building  first  erected  for  the  occupation  of  the 
master-workman  and  his  mates,  in  the  small  beginnings  at  the 
forge.  At  that  time  it  probably  passed  for  a  very  good  sort  of  a 
house.  It  certainly  fulfilled  all  wants.  James  Leonard  himself  was 
only  a  salaried  employee.  Nothing  was  so  scarce  as  money.  Econ 
omy,  therefore,  ruled  in  every  branch  of  outlay.  With  such  limited 
means  at  their  command,  the  energies  of  the  projectors  were  neces 
sarily  directed  to  getting  their  works  going  first  of  all.  That  done, 
better  things  would,  no  doubt,  come  in  good  time.  And  so  they  did. 

We  accept,  then,  without  qualification,  the  deduction  that  this 
house  must  have  been  the  one  in  which  King  Philip  was  enter- 


200  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

tained  in  his  passage  to  and  fro ;  that  it  was  the  one  taken  under 
his  protection  at  the  breaking-out  of  hostilities  ;  that  consequently  it 
was  the  same  one  to  which  the  affrighted  settlers  fled  for  protection 
when  Philip's  human  bloodhounds  were  following  close  on  their 
track;  and,  if  we  are  to  believe  tradition,  it  was  the  place  where 
the  gory  head  of  the  great  Wampanoag  long  lay  concealed  after 
being  neatly  severed  from  the  trunk. 

In  this  mean-looking  house,  with  that  of  Thomas  Leonard,  the 
eldest  son  of  James,  which  stood  on  the  south  side  of  the  road, 
and  the  forge  building  just  beyond,  soldiers  were  kept  while  the 
war  lasted.  So  long  as  that  continued  the  forge  assumed  the  char 
acter  of  an  outpost.  The  three  buildings  completely  commanded 
the  road  as  well  as  each  other,  so  that  here  was  a  natural  rallying- 
point  for  the  hard-pressed  settlers  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was 
strongly  desired  by  those  who  knew  its  history  that  this  precious 
relic  of  that  deadly  struggle  which  had  solved  the  question  whether 
New  England  should  be  heathen  or  Christian,  pagan  or  civilized, 
should  be  spared  the  ravages  of  improvement  as  it  had  been  those 
of  time.  This  hope  was,  however,  not  destined  to  be  fulfilled. 
The  old  house  was  demolished  soon  after  I  visited  it ;  and  with  its 
disappearance  not  only  Raynham  and  Taunton,  but  the  whole 
country,  has  lost  one  of  its  treasures. 

Of  the  Gothic  House,  which  we  have  described  as  belonging  to 
a  later  period,  little  is  to  be  said  except  that  it  belonged  to  a  very 
quaint  and  picturesque  style  of  architecture,  which  we  should  much 
like  to  see  reproduced  in  some  of  the  buildings  of  our  own  day. 
The  late  Mr.  Hawthorne  was  able  to  invest  his  4k  House  of  Seven 
Gables "  with  almost  human  attributes  ;  so  much  so  indeed  that  the 
old  dwelling  itself  seemed  a  living  presence  to  us.  Certainly  the 
houses  men  have  lived  in  do  bring  us  closer  to  their  lives  than  all 
other  means  put  together.  They  are  no  longer  the  phantoms  of 
our  imagination.  We  see  them  in  their  very  habits  "  as  they  lived." 

The   Leonard   house  with   the   peaked   gables   stood   on   the  west 


THE    OLD    GOTHIC  HOUSE  201 

side  of  the  Fowling  Pond  road,  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
forge  ;  was  of  two  stories,  and  fronted  toward  the  south,  with  the 
end  toward  the  road.  Its  owner  and  builder  was  Captain  James 
Leonard,  the  Second,  son  of  the  original  master  of  the  forces.  In 
course  of  time  it  became  the  property  of  Zephaniah  Leonard,  the 
grandson  of  this  James,  who,  it  is  said,  did  not  fail  to  keep  up  the 
traditions  of  the  mansion  for  hospitality  and  good  cheer.  Nobody 
occupies  precisely  the  same  position  in  society  nowadays  as  the 
men  of  that  generation  did  in  their  time.  In  his  immediate  sphere 

Zephaniah  Leonard  was  the  great  man  —  the  autocrat,  in  short of 

his  day.  He  was  major  of  the  county  regiment,  and  captain  of  the 
cavalry  attached  to  it.  Later  on  he  was  made  a  judge  of  the  Court 
of  Common  Pleas,  which  office  he  continued  to  hold  until  his  death 
in  1766.  By  a  somewhat  remarkable  coincidence  his  wife  died  on 
the  same  day  with  himself,  so  that  husband  and  wife  were  buried 
in  one  grave  together.  Dying  intestate,  according  to  a  custom 
common  enough  in  that  day,  and  not  yet  extinct  in  some  parts  of 
the  country,  the  homestead  itself  was  divided  between  his  two  sons, 
from  whom  it  descended  through  two  generations  more  of  Leonards 
down  to  1850,  when,  in  consequence  of  its  dilapidated  condition,  it 
was  pulled  down,  after  standing  one  hundred  and  fifty  years,  or 
from  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  to  that  of  Victoria,  and  after  having 
sheltered  five  generations  of  the  same  family. 

Our  notice  of  the  Leonards  of  ancient  Taunton  closes  as  it 
began  with  a  reference  to  the  Rev.  Peres  Fobes,  minister  of  Rayn- 
ham,  who,  I  know  not  how,  easily  mistook  one  house  for  another. 
Another  mistake  of  his  will  not,  I  imagine,  be  so  easily  forgiven, 
or  so  soon  forgotten.  It  wras  a  custom  when  any  person  of  dis 
tinction  in  the  community  had  died  to  apply  to  the  minister  for  an 
epitaph.  Who  should  better  know  all  the  qualities  of  his  parish 
ioners  ?  who  so  well  the  exact  line  of  Scripture  fit  to  hit  the 
case  ?  Upon  the  decease  of  Major  Zephaniah  and  his  wife  their 
pastor,  Rev.  Mr.  Fobes,  composed  their  epitaph,  into  which  some 


202  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

traces  of  an  old  family  feud  are  thought  to  have  crept,  either  inad 
vertently,  or,  as  some  wits  suggested,  with  irony  prepense.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  here  is  the  inscription,  as  originally  cut,  though  one  line 
is  now  wanting  :  - 

"  To  dust  and  silence  so  much  worth  consigned 
Sheds  a  sad  gloom  o'er  vanities  behind. 
Such  our  pursuits  ?     Proud  mortals  vainly  soar. 
See  here,  the  wise,  the  virtuous  are  no  more. 
How  mean  Ambition  !  how  completely  hate ; 
How  dim  the  tinsel  glories  of  the  Great ! 
Even  the  Leonards  undistinguished  fall, 
And  death  and  hovering  darkness  hide  us  all." 

The  disappearance  of  this  one  line  of  the  inscription  is  accounted 
for  in  this  way.  By  the  descendants  of  the  defunct,  who  believed 
they  knew  how  to  read  between  the  lines,  it  was  considered  more 
in  the  light  of  condemnation  than  of  commendation.  Common 
people  saw  only  its  flatness.  Accordingly,  on  one  memorable  day, 
a  certain  moody  young  man  took  a  hammer  and  chisel,  with  which 
he  incontinently  erased  the  objectionable  line.  So  it  now  appears 
on  the  sarcophagus  erected  over  the  remains  in  the  Plains  Ceme 
tery.  All  will  agree,  we  think,  in  characterizing  the  epitaph,  as  a 
whole,  as  a  most  labored,  turgid  affair,  even  if  all  should  not  see  in 
it  a  timely  warning  to  be  careful  who  shall  write  our  epitaphs. 


THE    OLD   STONE   HOUSE  203 


THE    OLD    STONE    HOUSE 

GUILFORD,    CONN. 

AFTER  taking  note  of  the  many  curious  contrasts  afforded  by  the 
houses  themselves,  we  are  infallibly  led  to  Pope's  conclusion  that 

"  Honor  and  fame  from  no  condition  rise." 

We  have  seen  two  presidents  of  the  United  States  coming  out  of 
a  very  ordinary  farmhouse  ;  a  general  of  high  military  renown  from 
another ;  a  fisherman's  son,  become  a  baronet,  from  another.  We 
have  seen  some  houses  made  famous  by  what  has  happened  within 
their  walls  ;  others  through  the  mere  caprice  of  genius,  like  the 
Wayside  Inn.  In  short,  our  sentimental  peregrinations  have  led  us 
among  people  of  all  sorts  and  conditions,  into  the  dust  and  smoke 
of  battle,  and  from  grave  to  gay.  One  more  of  these  patriarchs, 
and  we  have  done. 

The  pleasant  seashore  town  of  Guilford,  Connecticut,  is  yet  an- 
other  example  of  the  way  in  which  advancing  civilization  followed 
close  in  the  retreating  footsteps  of  an  absolutely  lethargic  and  un- 
progressive  barbarism.  Galileo's  memorable  declaration  that  the 
world  moves  may  be  as  truly  applied  to  the  course  of  events  as  to 
the  turnings  of  our  globe.  And  the  destruction  of  whole  races  of 
men  for  the  benefit  of  others  better  endowed  for  the  great  work 
of  pushing  forward  progress  into  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth, 
cruel  as  it  seems,  is  the  distinct  philosophy  of  all  human  history. 

Although  the  country  lying  on  the  west  of  the  Connecticut  did 
not  belong  to  the  Pequots,  they  held  the  local  tribes  in  a  sort  of 
vassalage  by  the  fear  of  their  prowess  in  war.  These  Mohawks  of 


204  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

New  England  were,  therefore,  the  first  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the 
whites.  Whoever  vanquished  them  would  more  than  inherit  their 
mastery  over  the  detached  and  weaker  tribes  over  whom  that  nation 
had  so  long  lorded  it  with  iron  hand. 

When,  therefore,  those  fierce  and  intractable  Pequots  who  sur 
vived  the  edge  of  the  sword  abandoned  in  dismay  the  lands  they 
also  had  once  wrested  from  weaker  tribes,  the  victorious  whites, 
weary  of  slaughter,  fully  believed  themselves  the  chosen  instruments 
of  Divine  wrath  in  freeing  the  land  of  such  idolatrous  hordes  ;  nor 
in  word  or  deed  do  they  ever  evince  the  least  prick  of  conscience 
at  having  performed  the  work  thoroughly  well.  It  was  the  philoso 
phy  of  that  century  ;  it  has  been  the  philosophy  of  our  own. 

Then  began  the  more  Christian  work  of  planting  villages,  of 
welding  together  infant  communities,  of  replenishing  the  desolated 
land  with  inhabitants,  of  establishing  the  new  Messiah  of  peace  and 
good  will,  even  though  its  coming  had  been  announced  by  the  sword. 
Humanity  may  weep  over  the  crimes  committed  in  its  name,  but 
would  the  world  to-day  be  willing  to  go  back  to  the  old  order  of 
things  ? 

Guilford  was  the  early  blossom  of  that  ferocious  Pequot  War. 
The  savages  had  begun  it  by  waylaying,  murdering,  and  torturing 
the  scattered  English.  The  English  finished  it  by  roasting  the  Pe 
quots  alive  in  the  flames  of  their  own  villages.  To  this  day  one  of 
the  headlands  of  Guilford  commemorates  an  incident  of  that  war. 
The  story  goes  that  some  fugitive  Pequots,  flying  to  this  place  for 
security,  were  hemmed  in  by  their  pursuers.  Right  well  they  knew 
what  their  portion  would  be.  Taken  in  a  trap,  after  making  heroic 
efforts  to  escape,  resigned  but  defiant  still,  the  Pequots  submitted 
to  their  fate  with  all  the  stoicism  of  their  race.  An  Indian  never 
whimpered  when  the  axe  was  raised  to  strike.  At  that  supreme 
moment  he  was  no  longer  a  barbarian,  but  a  man.  A  redeeming 
heroism  exalted  his  last  moments.  He  looked  his  executioner  in 
the  eye  without  flinching.  Mononotto,  the  Pequot  chief,  had  his 


THE    OLD    STONE   HOUSE  205 

skull  split  at  a  stroke.  The  Mohegans  struck  off  his  head  and  set 
it  up  in  the  forks  of  a  branching  oak,  from  which  circumstance  the 
place  thenceforward  took  the  name  of  Sachem's  Head. 

The  Indian  name  of  Guilford  was  Menuncatuc. 

The  way  being  thus  cleared,  it  was  not  long  before  the  whites 
began  to  flock  into  what  subsequently  became  New  Haven  Colony, 
—  a  self-made  colony,  if  we  may  use  the  term,  since  it  was  wholly 
the  work  of  the  governed  ;  for  charter  they  had  none,  organic  law 
none.  These  were  chiefly  new  emigrants  for  whom  the  opening  up 
of  new  territory  had  the  same  alluring  charm  as  it  has  ever  had 
since  the  world  began.  To  Menuncatuc  about  forty  people  from 
Kent,  Suffolk,  and  Surrey,  in  England,  accordingly  came  in  the  year 
1639;  their  final  choice  of  this  spot  being  determined,  it  is  said,  by 
its  marked  resemblance  to  the  old  home  across  the  water.  Our 
conception  of  the  Puritan  broadens  as  we  find  him  thus  in  touch 
with  human  sympathy.  Yet  it  is  by  no  means  a  new  thing  to  find 
this  revivifying1  sentiment  alive  and  active  amono-  the  original  emi- 

•>  O  fc>  t"> 

grants.  It  was  transplanted  from  the  old  England  to  the  New ;  it 
has  been  transplanted  from  bleak  New  England  all  the  way  to  the 
Pacific. 

These  settlers  (and  it  will  never  do  to  pass  over  with  a  shrug 
forces  so  distinctly  operative  in  directing  the  very  acts  of  men)  hon 
orably  purchased  the  lands  of  the  natives,  merely  stipulating  that 
the  late  owners  should  immediately  remove  from  them.  The  act, 
severely  practical  and  commonplace  as  it  may  seem,  may,  neverthe 
less,  be  construed  into  a  feeling  of  lingering  distrust  toward  the 
red  man.  They  would  buy  with  him,  sell  with  him,  but  of  his  com 
pany  they  would  fain  be  rid.  We  cannot  blame  them.  It  is  fair  to 
presume  that  all  New  England  was  still  talking  of  the  war  and  its 
horrors. 

We  like  to  think  about  people  who  had  taken  such  a  distinct 
forward  step  —  of  what  they  fancied  they  were  going  to  do  with  the 
full  and  entire  liberty  they  carried  with  them  in  their  wise  heads. 


206  OUR    COLONIAL    HOMES 

Why  was  not  the  phonograph  then  invented  to  transmit  to  us  their 
conversations  ?  How  earnestly  they  must  have  talked  it  all  over 
until  drowsiness  put  its  spell  upon  their  tongues,  prayed  over  it, 
slept  upon  it,  perhaps  dreamed  about  it  !  Usually  the  English 
colonist,  bound  by  old  forms,  exploded  traditions,  hereditary  sub 
mission,  and  what  not,  could  not  be  made  to  stir  a  step  until  he 
had  first  encumbered  himself  with  all  the  wordy  and  generally 
meaningless  formalities  of  a  sheepskin  duly  signed  and  sealed. 
In  fact,  he  was  the  slave  of  forms.  These  Guilfordites  were  as  free 
as  the  Indians  whom  they  had  just  bought  out.  While  building 
their  poor  cabins,  they  were  also  contriving  air-castles  out  of  their 
cherished  theories  of  self-government.  It  required  no  little  forti 
tude,  considerable  confidence  in  themselves,  not  to  forget  an  unde- 
viating  reliance  in  the  Guiding  Hand,  to  enter  upon  the  experiment 
at  all.  But  these  enthusiasts  felt  no  fear  ;  their  world  was  all  before 
them,  and  they  were  filled  with  the  youthful  desire  to  carve  out 
their  fortunes  for  themselves. 

Of  this  united  brotherhood  of  choice  spirits  were  the  Rev.  Henry 
Whitfield,  "  that  gracious  and  faithful  pastor  ;  "  Samuel  Desborough, 
his  son-in-law,  afterwards  Lord  Keeper  of  Scotland;  William  Leete, 
afterwards  governor  of  New  Haven  Colony ;  and  John  Hoadley,  who 
subsequently  held  the  post  of  Chaplain  of  the  Castle  of  Edinburgh, 
presumably  through  his  friend  Desborough's  influence.  In  respect  of 
ability  this  was  no  ordinary  combination  of  men.  All  were  young, 
all  full  of  life  and  hope  and  energy,  of  zeal  and  determination  to 
make  their  mark  on  the  wilderness  in  which  they  had  cast  their  lot. 

Having  taken  up  ground  outside  of  existing  charter  limits,  these 
settlers  were  now  wholly  thrown  upon  their  own  resources  as  respects 
their  organic  law.  They  therefore  fell  back  upon  the  great  moral 
law  of  all  Christian  men.  In  this  way  the  Scriptures  became  their 
fundamental  law,  of  which  the  pastor  was,  of  course,  the  admitted 
expounder.  In  its  first  estate  Guilford,  therefore,  stands  for  a  unit 
of  self-government,  under  strictly  ecclesiastical  forms. 


THE    OLD   STONE   HOUSE  207 

Rude  lives  these  pioneers  must  have  led  at  first !  Scant  living 
and  hard  beds  must  have  been  their  lot !  Work  began  with  the 
first  glimmer  of  dawn,  and  ended  only  when  the  red  sun  sank  behind 
the  darkening  hills  in  the  west.  Then,  stretched  out  on  the  bare 
ground  in  their  cloaks,  under  the  stars,  the  tired  toilers  fell  into  the 
deep  sleep  that  waits  on  honest  labor,  to  wander  away  into  the  land 
of  dreams.  One  for  all,  all  for  one  ;  this  was  their  true  federation 
of  love  and  labor. 

The  minister's  comfortable  housing  seems  to  have  been  one  of 
the  first  things  looked  to.  At  any  rate,  we  find  these  settlers  almost 
immediately  setting  about  building  him  a  house,  —  a  house  of  stone. 
Notwithstanding  their  friendly  arrangement  with  the  native  owners, 
says  the  tradition  (and  we  are  more  than  half  inclined  to  believe  it 
true),  the  settlers  thought  it  only  the  part  of  prudence  to  build  at 
least  one  house  which  should  be  so  constructed  as  to  serve  at  need 
both  as  castle  and  fortress.  It  certainly  explains  why  so  much  time 
and  labor  should  be  expended  on  a  stone  house  when,  on  most 
grounds,  one  of  wood  was  to  be  preferred. 

We  might  follow  those  first-comers  in  their  perambulations  about 
in  search  of  a  site  for  their  principal  house  ;  observe  their  animated 
pointings  hither  and  thither  ;  listen  to  the  pros  and  cons  with  which 
the  advantages  of  this  or  that  spot  were  discussed  ;  see  them  thought 
fully  leaning  on  the  muzzles  of  their  muskets  ;  but  most  assuredly 
come  with  them  to  the  safe  conclusion  at  last,  that  the  little  ris 
ing-ground  situated  at  the  head  of  the  great  plain  was,  on  the  whole, 
the  spot  of  all  others. 

So  to  work  all  went  with  a  will.  There  must  have  been  clever 
artisans  among  them,  as  the  undertaking  was  no  common  one  for 
those  primitive  days.  To  begin  with,  the  rough  stone  lay  at  quite 
a  distance  from  the  chosen  site.  We  are  told  that  while  some 
toiled  with  sledge  and  bar  at  getting  out  the  stone  at  the  quarry, 
others  trudged  to  and  fro  with  the  hand  barrows.  So,  counting 
those  who  were  employed  in  mixing  the  mortar,  or  in  laying  up  the 


2O8 


OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 


walls,  about  all  the  able-bodied  men  present  must  have  put  in 
more  or  less  labor  on  the  building.  That  the  work  was  well  done 
we  know.  The  minister  himself  was  a  scholar,  refined,  delicately 
reared,  unaccustomed  to  labor  with  his  hands  ;  yet  for  all  that  we 
think  it  would  be  safe  to  wager  something  that  he  did  not  stand 
idle  while  others  worked,  but  was  as  bus)-  as  the  busiest.  When 
every  man  had  done  his  share  the  house  was  built. 

We    do    not    precisely    know    either    when    the    house    was    com- 


THE    OLD    STONE    HOUSE,    GUILFORD,    CONN. 

pleted,  or  when  first  occupied.  It  is  more  likely  than  not  that  it 
was  ready  for  its  tenant  some  time  during  the  year  1640.  Such 
houses  are  not  built  in  a  clay.  And  to  think  that  any  vestige  of 
the  self-same  building  should  be  standing  to-day,  greatly  emphasizes 
the  durable  character  of  the  work  done  so  long  ago.  When  we 
cast  a  look  back  and  think  of  its  great  age,  a  year  or  two  more  or 
less  becomes  a  small  matter  indeed. 

The  Old  Stone  House  (we  do  not  know  either  just  when  it  began 
to  grow  old,  or  to  be  affectionately  called  so)  was  a  solid,  sub 
stantial,  and  even  comfortable  dwelling,  as  it  was  meant  to  be,  not 


THE    OLD    STONE   HOUSE  209 

only  for  that  time,  but  for  two  centuries  later.  It  consisted  of  a 
main  building  and  an  "  L."  Plain  to  homeliness  it  certainly  was;  yet 
its  two  big  outside  chimneys,  heavily  buttressed  up  against  the 
exterior  walls,  have  no  counterpart,  that  we  know  of,  in  New  Eng 
land,  though  that  manner  of  building  was  common  enough  in  the 
Middle  and  Southern  colonies.  It  makes  us  fancy  that  this  house 
must  have  had  a  prototype  somewhere  in  far-off  Surrey.  If  so,  it 
was  a  modern-antique  when  first  built,  -  -  a  new-old  house.  And 
why  not  ?  Guilford  was  chosen  because  it  looked  like  the  old  home. 
Why  may  not  these  exiles  have  carried  that  same  idea  into  their 
building,  and  so  have  made  it  monumental  ? 

All  agree  that  in  its  original  form  the  Old  Stone  House  was  a 
very  picturesque  object.  We  have,  therefore,  taken  great  pains  to 
present  it  as  nearly  as  possible  as  it  was.  The  walls  were  laid 
two  feet  thick  in  mortar  that,  with  time,  became  as  hard  as  the 
stone  itself.  The  woodwork  was  made  strong  and  durable,  though 
not  too  clumsy,  with  low  ceilings  for  warmth  as  well  as  for  economy's 
sake.  After  a  long  departure  from  this  old  way,  we,  the  prodigal 
sons  of  this  wiser  generation,  are  going  back  to  the  example  set 
by  the  Puritan  fathers  in  this  respect.  But  how  the  big  fires  must 
have  roared  up  those  chimneys  of  a  cold  winter's  night !  and  how 
like  from  a  furnace  in  full  blast  the  sparks  must  have  streamed  up 
out  of  their  sooty  throats  into  the  outer  darkness  ! 

We  are  told  that  at  the  first  marriage  solemnized  in  the 
Stone  House  the  wedding  feast  consisted  wholly  of  pork  and 
beans. 

For  a  full  decade  onward  from  the  date  of  its  erection  the  his 
tory  of  the  parsonage  is  wrapped  up  in  that  of  the  infant  colony; 
and  that,  we  regret  to  say,  is  one  of  gradual  but  steady  disintegration. 
The  causes  for  this  state  of  things  must  be  sought  for  among  the 
narratives  of  the  time.  It  is  only  alluded  to  here  in  explanation 
of  what  befell  the  promising  beginnings  of  Gmlford,  where  so  many 
good  men  and  true  were  expending  their  best  energies  at  hard 


210  OUR    COLONIAL   HOMES 

and  unremunerative  labor  in  the  hope  of  seeing  their  infant  plan 
tation  eventually  take  firm  root. 

That  this  "rockie,  sandy  wildernesse"  did  not  realize  their  hopes 
is  only  too  evident  from  the  sequel.  We  find  them  at  least  half 
convinced  that  their  experiment  was  a  failure  ;  for  \ve  find  them 
casting  about  for  some  place  to  remove  to  where  they  might  have 
11  cities  read)'  builded  and  land  ready  tilled,"  and  turning  longing 
eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  Delaware,  where  they  did  make  one 
serious  but  wholly  disastrous  attempt  to  settle  a  town. 

The  situation  here  at  Guilforcl,  and  in  the  neighbor  settlements 
also,  was  precisely  that  from  which  some  abnormal  condition,  such 
as  war,  for  instance,  would  be  sure  to  profit,  and  profit  to  the  utmost. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  breaking-out  of  civil  war  in  Old  Eng 
land  —  gigantic  struggle  which  shook  the  world  !  —  resulted  in  call 
ing  back  many  of  the  bravest  spirits  in  the  Puritan  colonies  to 
serve  under  Cromwell's  banners.  From  the  shores  of  the  distracted 
island  came  forth  the  Macedonian  cry  of  "Come  over  and  help  us  !" 
nor  did  it  fall  on  dull  ears.  The  ocean  was  not  broad  enough  or 
deep  enough  to  extinguish  the  memory  of  the  wrongs  that  had  first 
driven  the  Puritans  into  exile.  Long  had  they  listened  for  the 
first  faint  notes  of  the  war-trumpet,  and  it  was  now  being  sounded 
out  loud  and  clear.  Many  a  young  man  therefore  gladly  threw 
down  the  mattock  and  spade  to  buckle  on  the  sword.  With  that 
same  trusty  weapon  a  score  or  more  carved  their  names  deeply  in 
the  history  of  those  troublous  times.  Some  fell,  some  returned,  and 
some  remained  behind  to  see  the  great  fabric  they  had  sweat  blood 
to  rear,  come  down  with  a  crash  into  the  dust  at  the  blowing  of  an 
enchanted  horn. 

Mr.  Whitfield  himself  went  back  to  England  in  1650.  Hubbard 
attributes  his  doing  so  partly  to  "  the  sharpness  of  the  air,  he  hav 
ing  a  weak  body,  and  partly  to  the  toughness  of  those  employments 
wherein  his  livelihood  was  to  be  sought,  he  having  been  tenderly 
and  delicately  brought  up.  He  therefore,  finding  his  estate  wasted 


THE    OLD   STONE   HOUSE  21  I 

very  much,  his  body  decaying,  and  many  other  things  concurring, 
removed  back  again  to  England,  not  without  the  tears  and  unspeak 
able  lamentations  of  his  dear  Hock.  This,"  Hubbard  continues, 
"was  a  great  loss  not  only  to  them,  but  to  all  that  side  of  the 
country."  We  can  well  believe  that  the  loss  of  such  a  man  would 
appear  to  his  people  in  the  light  of  a  public  calamity.  Like  dear 
Old  Goldy's  village  preacher,  - 

"  A  man  he  was  to  all  his  people  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  eighty  pounds  a  year." 

We  learn  that  Mr.  Whitfield  sold  his  Guilford  estate  to  a  Major 
Thompson,  who  in  turn  transmitted  it  to  his  heirs.  At  the  beo-in- 
ning  of  this  century  it  was  described  by  President  Dwight  as  lately 
belonging  to  one  Joseph  Pynchon  ;  and  from  other  sources  we  find 
that  it  was  at  this  time  considered  of  equal  value  with  any  other 
building  in  the  township,  was  in  a  tolerable  state  of  preservation, 
and  even  then  was  much  visited  by  strangers.  So  it  remained 
down  to  the  year  1868,  when,  alas!  the  ruthless  destroyer,  time, 
decreed  that  the  days  of  the  ancient  landmark  were  numbered.  It 
was  torn  down  and  rebuilt.  All  that  is  really  ancient  in  the  present 
structure  is  the  big  chimney  at  the  north  end,  although  some  of  the 
old  materials  and  foundation  walls  were  used  in  the  rebuilding. 
That,  however,  constituted  the  most  characteristic  feature  of  the  Old 
Stone  House,  in  its  original  form,  and  fortunately  that  was  retained. 
We  might  say  with  entire  truth  that  for  a  half-century,  at  least,  the 
history  of  Guilford  seems  to  revolve  around  the  Old  Stone  House, 
or  that  whenever  we  think  of  Guilford  a  picture  of  the  Old  Stone 
House  at  once  rises  into  view. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROW! 
LOAN  DEPT. 


s  book  is  due  on  the  las,  date  -.ped  below,  o, 


is  due  on  me  la.**-  «•»;•  i    . 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 


ontneuaic  iw  >. 
Renewed  books  ate  subject  to  immecUaterecall. 


' 


KQVJJJS59 


LD  2lA-50m-8,'57 
(C8481slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


810333 


707 
IP-/ 

UNIVERSITYvf^CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


•  .  >..  * 

^•• 


